Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Read online

  I want to apologize, to plead for his forgiveness, to ask for his understanding. Would he understand? How can I explain a relationship I both fear and crave? How do I explain the need to protect Zagan?

  Protect a demon? It’s official. I’ve lost it.

  He’s a freakin’ demon. He can protect his own damned self.

  I’m telling Smythe everything. Everything.

  If he’ll listen without yelling.

  The portal swallows us, spits us out in the landing room, the brightness of the white walled room frying my retinas. I blink but have no time to adjust. Smythe grabs my arm and marches me past excited voices toward the door. Wait, wait, wait. Scratch what I said earlier. Talking to Smythe while he wears his fuck-off expression ranks lower than partying with Samantha.

  “Shouldn’t we stay?”

  “No.” He yanks the door open at the same time David spots us.

  “Son! Glad you made it back okay. Where you going?”

  Smythe pauses, shoves me through the opening into the hall. “Out.”

  “Heard you killed the bastard.”

  “I didn’t touch him.”

  “Wasn’t talking to you.” He nods my way.

  “I stuck my sword into him, and he burned into a pile of ash.” Gah, that sounded like a line from a bad romance novel.

  David grins, for all appearances believing my tale. “Good job, Gin.”

  “Thanks.” I paste on a smile and hope it seems real.

  “We’re leaving.” Smythe takes a step forward, stopping when David puts a hand on his shoulder.

  “Why the rush?”

  “I need to talk to Gin.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. You know I don’t like parties.”

  David drops his arm, his eyes gleaming blue daggers. “Then enjoy your talk.”

  Smythe waves and marches me down the hall. I turn, one hand offering David a little wave. But he’s gone, the door to the landing room clicking shut, leaving me alone with an angry mage on a mission.

  The elevator chimes a welcoming beep and the doors slide open. Smythe releases my shoulder the minute the doors snap shut. Guess he realizes there’s nowhere in this tiny box for me to run.

  And I want to run. His anger wraps around me, thick and smothering. I tighten my left hand into a fist until the knuckles blanch. Stand straight, don’t slump, don’t act afraid. I am not afraid. This is Smythe. Smythe. Smythe. Smythe. Not a ghost from my past. The doors ping open and he gestures me out first.

  Spine straight, I quick-step past him. No fear. Yeah, right. I vacillate between knowing he won’t hurt me and thinking he might. But no brush of air warning of an impending strike tickles my nape. Only the whispering glide of the closing doors. The pounding beat of my heart echoes in my ears, shudders through my veins, a trembling chant of doom.

  Smythe strides past me, holding open the door to his apartment as if he’s trying to impress me. More like he’s trying not to explode where others can hear.

  I’m two feet into the apartment when the door clicks shut. Not slams. Clicks. He’s madder than I thought.

  “Gin,” his soft tone creeps along my skin, the low weight of my name on his lips more a warning than a shrill bell.

  A full body shiver snakes through me as I turn and step to the side. Out of his reach.

  Or so I thought. His hand bands around the justitia and a cold spell twists through my veins, rooting me in place. Electricity spirals through my limbs, along nerves, testing the connection between the justitia and me, searching for another entity.

  Full-blown panic sets in as the spell weaves from my lower body, across my torso, settling in my neck. Over Zagan’s mark.

  Shit.

  With a pop, the spell releases me, and I sag. For half a second, I think Smythe will let me land on the floor, but he grabs me under the arm and then around my waist, lifting and carrying me the few feet to the recliner.

  My mentor, infuriated but still kind. Because he’s a gentleman or to mess with my mind?

  Why am I so distrustful? This is Smythe I’m talking about. Like certain computer specs: what you see is what you get.

  And currently what I get is a man pawing strands of loose hair away from my neck, his finger scrubbing off cover-up. It’s too late to yank away. To try and run. Besides, I want to tell him everything.

  Don’t I?

  Smythe curses a string of his favorite f-bombs. Okay, so clearly right now is not the best time for a metaphorical purging of my soul.

  He stops pacing by the kitchen counter, back to me, hands on hips, his sword sheath covering his spine. The hilt pokes out a few inches above the leather sheath, black leather covering steel. With a quick grab and twist, he could yank that sucker out and whack off my head.

  “It’s tempting.” My telepathic mentor turns, crosses his arms, and leans against the counter.

  I swallow and do my best to move as little as possible. “Glad you are refraining.”

  “What were you thinking? You lied to me. How am I supposed to trust you if you lie?”

  “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t lie.”

  “Then how do you explain that mark on your neck?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it. So I didn’t. That’s not a lie.”

  His jaw stiffens. “That’s a fine line, and you know it.”

  I shrug.

  “What else are you hiding from me?”

  Plenty. None of which involve Zagan. None of which I’ll tell. Stick to the topic of demons.

  “The mark appeared a couple of days after he clawed me, but I didn’t sense him inside me. I only sensed the justitia, not him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  My fingers clench, knuckles whitening. Admitting fear is hard for me. Admitting fear when I want to appear strong even harder.

  “I was scared.” The words barely pass into the land of audible, but Smythe hears them. Some of the anger wrapping him in tension abates.

  “You should have come to me.”

  “What would you have done? What are you going to do?”

  “My spell shows his presence in that mark, but no place else inside. You were right about that. It’s not a strong presence, but after that stunt you pulled today—”

  “Wasn’t a stunt. And I didn’t pull it. Only followed along.”

  “Same difference. What the fuck were you thinking?” His fingers clench until they blanch. “You are supposed to kill demons, not join them in theatrical illusions.”

  “I can’t kill Zagan. My justitia won’t let me. It knows him. They’re friends.”

  “Friends?” One brow raises in disbelief. “You said that earlier.”

  “Yep. Friends.” I hold up the bracelet and give my wrist a shake. “It won’t work right around him. It’ll kill the minions, but not their essence. It refuses to hurt Zagan.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Yeah? Then how do you explain its wailing in my head at the meeting, refusing to kill? It told me to help him. I can’t kill him. Even if the bracelet refuses to do its job. I can’t kill Zagan. I don’t want to.” My voice drops to a whisper, an admittance of a wrong I don’t understand.

  “So you plotted with him to make it seem like he was dead.”

  “I did no such thing. I obeyed his request.” Yeah, like that sounds a whole hell of a lot better.

  “Are you his servant?”

  “Of course not! I don’t think so. I don’t want to be. But I can’t kill him. Only him. Other demons”—I point at my chest—“I’m your huntress.”

  “Justitian.” His grin sticks on his lips not affecting the pissed off gleam in his eyes. “Why did he insist on the illusion? Why not fight us? Or just disappear?”

  “He wants the Agency to think he’s dead.”

  “Clearly. Why?”

  I throw my hands up, the universal sign for no effing idea. “I don’t know. Do the others suspect?”

  “I’m surprised no one
noticed.” He shakes his head. “You’d think they would’ve realized the minions vanished instead of dropping to the ground like they usually do when their host dies.”

  “You killed one, didn’t you?”

  His lips twitch. “Yep. Wanted to make sure I saw through the illusion.”

  “I couldn’t see them. Just your motions. And I really don’t know why Zagan wants to pretend to be dead.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t believe you.”

  Trust is a valuable thing. Once it’s gone, retrieving it becomes challenging, if not downright impossible. To think Smythe doesn’t trust me, to think my actions today damaged the burgeoning respect between us, twists in my chest like a knife.

  But I have no one to blame except myself. He sure as hell didn’t ask me to cozy up to a demon. No, Smythe asked for nothing but my truth.

  And truth for me was hard to give.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “A little late for that now.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  He sighs. “I don’t understand this relationship you have with a demon.”

  “You and me both.”

  His eyes narrow, and I close my smart mouth before it gets me in more trouble than I’m already in.

  “Tell it to me from the beginning.”

  I draw in a deep breath and release my entire experience with Zagan like a purge of toxins. The longer I talk, the higher his brows raise, until I come to where Zagan talked me into helping with the illusion, and his brows slam low over his eyes, muscles tensing in his biceps as if he aches to throttle someone.

  I stutter and keep on going. Perhaps it’s foolish, but I trust he won’t give into the impulse.

  When I finish he draws in air through his nose. I expect steam to come out his ears, but instead he stares at me as if I’ve grown an extra appendage.

  Silence settles, a smothering stillness. I want to drop my gaze, to stop staring into his eyes, but I don’t. Holding his gaze puts me on equal footing, not collapsing into a trembling heap. I’m stronger than that.

  Fake it until you make it.

  “Why does a demon want a Justitian as a servant? Why does your justitia react that way to him? Why does he want the Agency to think him dead?”

  “You sound like a petulant toddler, Smythe. Why, why, why.”

  His eyes tighten then a grin twitches his lips. “They’re valid questions. You don’t seem to know the answer to any of them.”

  “You should know the answer to the last one. I’d think all demons would want the Agency to think of them as dead. Then they wouldn’t be hunted by my sword sisters.”

  “Sword sisters? Never mind. All demons want the Agency to stop hunting them. So far none have pretended to be dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  He pauses, blinks, as if the thought never occurred to him. “It’s been centuries since we tracked a demon to its lair. Most kills happen when they appear on earth. And once dead, they stay that way.”

  “Okay, okay, I cede the point. Speaking of demons walking the earth, any idea why one was outside Dr. Sheevers’ house?”

  Smythe sighs, one hand rubbing over his head in a gesture reminiscent of T when frustrated. “Maybe it’s tracking a killer?”

  “Then why appear at the med school? Why kill a grad student?”

  “Now you sound like a petulant toddler.” His grin spreads to his eyes, and tension releases from my muscles. Our argument might not be forgotten, but he has on his game face, concentration on the problem demon top priority.

  Thank God.

  For once my sudden topic change works.

  “They’re still valid questions. Where’s your laptop?”

  “Your house.” His face shutters, as if anything having to do with me makes him remember our argument. Dammit. “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least pop in for the party?”

  “No. It’s not really a party.”

  “You said…”

  “I know what I said. It’s probably over anyway.”

  “Did you lie to your dad?” I raise a brow.

  Red tinges his clenched jaw. “I do not like attending parties. So no, I did not.”

  “Uh-huh.” I point to him, “Kettle,” touch my chest, “Pot.”

  Why am I not surprised he ignores the jab?

  “Come on, Gin. I’ll take you home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I drop my clothes into a pile in the bathroom. Surprise, surprise, the leather pants came off. After a few tugs. And what’s up with all the red creases marring my backside? Allergic reaction to minion blood? Rash? Too tight pants?

  Ding, ding, ding. Answer number three. As if there’s any question.

  On the plus side, black leather hides bloodstains and spatters, and protects my skin from minion cooties. Guess I’ll be wearing those bad boys again.

  My shower takes less time than removing the pants. When I walk into the kitchen, Smythe sits at the table, laptop whirring a merry tune of internet hunting. Can he really find info about justitias and demons online? Maybe he browses the demon-net.

  Demon-net. Ha. Aren’t I funny?

  He lifts his head as I walk to the cabinet, his gaze full of tension that flails against my skin, a whip of distrust.

  I caused this ache between us, my behavior, my fault, my responsibility to heal the break. If only I knew how.

  As far as I know, time travel doesn’t exist. Of course, up to a couple of weeks ago, I thought demons didn’t either, so clearly what I know is questionable.

  “Hey, find anything?”

  A long pause, as if he debates whether to tell me his findings. Sadness curls behind my heart, leaks into my tight chest. I hate this tension. Knowing I screwed up. And not just me. My justitia and its refusal to do what it was designed for and kill Zagan held most of the blame. I’m pretty sure it overrode my impulse to rid the world of a demon and replaced it with cozy feelings for said demon.

  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  For now. Later I’ll try to communicate with the damn thing and get it to tell me what its problem is.

  I lead a strange life to think communicating with an entity in my bracelet is doable.

  Smythe releases a noisy breath. “You won’t like it.”

  “Give it to me anyway.”

  “Micah died.”

  My hand pauses halfway to my glass. She died? Samantha’s ward died? I expected news about the demon, not what happened to my fellow Justititan.

  “I thought she was getting better.”

  “They were unable to bring her out of the coma. At first she got better, but then she took a turn for the worse.”

  “Is that why Samantha led the attack on Zagan? Because she knew her ward was dying?”

  He thumps the laptop screen. “From the records it looks like she was improving when Samantha decided to plan the attack. But while we were in Zagan’s lair, Micah took a turn for the worse and passed away.”

  Head injuries are fickle things. But usually a turn for the worse lingers longer than the time it took for us to attack Zagan’s lair. Usually.

  Smythe’s narrowed eyes make me think he feels the same. I reach for the tentative connection between us, the pathway of our joined minds and run into a metaphorical brick wall. Guess my telepathy lessons have ended.

  “I’m really sorry to hear she died. I bet Samantha is freaking out.” I even feel a tad bit sorry for the blonde bitch.

  But only a tad.

  “Does a head injury patient who’s recovering die that fast?”

  I nod and fill my glass from the fridge. “They can.”

  “I think someone killed her while a good number of mages were on a mission.”

  “That’s one hell of an accusation.”

  “I know,” he shrugs, “but it’s what my gut tells me.”

  “What does the old gut say about who did it? And how?”

  “How’s easy. Two spells
come to mind. Dark magic, though. The kind Agency mages shouldn’t use.”

  “Then how do you know them?”

  He raises a brow. Nope, not going there rushes through my mind. Telepathy? Or facial expression?

  Either way my curiosity is piqued.

  A question for later. Once he trusts me again.

  If he trusts me again.

  A tendril of sadness unfurls behind my sternum, and I rub at the ache with my free hand.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me.” I take a sip of water as he continues to stare in silence. “Who do you think knows a mysterious spell of dark magic?”

  “Do you try to be a smart ass, or does it just come naturally?”

  I offer him a friendly finger gesture as I take another sip.

  He shakes his head. “Several mages know those spells. All of whom were at the Agency when she died.”

  I want to point out that not all who knew the spell were at the Agency, but my lips stay shut. He already thinks me a smartass.

  “I can’t believe any of them would want her dead. Why go to the trouble?”

  “Maybe she knew something they didn’t want told.”

  “Micah?” He gives a double brow raise. “She was by the book.”

  “Then how did she get paired with Samantha?”

  “They were friends.”

  “Seriously? Sam—” I’m about to ask, Samantha has friends, when I remember she and Smythe had a thing once upon a time. No sense angering the beast by reminding him of his poor choice in bed companions. “Huh. Didn’t think they’d pair friends.”

  By his expression, I know my almost slip did not pass unnoticed. But he chooses to not elaborate on the topic.

  “They try to pair companionably.”

  “Then how did you get me?”

  “You weren’t supposed to have bonded with the justitia. I was supposed to return it.”

  “But you knew when I killed a minion. You appeared in my kitchen.” And about scared the holy daylights out of me.

  “Since I’d already made contact with you, I was told to carry it through if need be.”

  “You make it sound like you didn’t want to be my mentor.”

  “You knew nothing about this life.” Sure, it sounds like the training level was just too hard for him, but beneath the surface a volatile mix of anger and self-loathing boils.