Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Read online

  He lost a mentee, his friend with benefits. Though he has never told me the details. I wonder how long ago it happened.

  Well, I’ll be. Another question for my list of things to ask Smythe when he trusts me again.

  I definitely need to figure out how to get him to trust me. Too many unanswered questions for my liking.

  “Then why did you take the job?”

  “Dad ordered me to.”

  “So without your dad’s orders you never would have met me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then who would be my mentor?”

  “The next person on the list. We try to rotate. That’s why it was such a surprise I was chosen again as a mentor.”

  “Does that mean Samantha is out of rotation?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you regret the order?”

  Silence fills the kitchen. I force myself to hold his gaze, to not drop my eyes, to not appear weak. But I cringe inside. I shouldn’t have asked. I know the answer. And when he speaks it’s no surprise.

  “At first. You were…are…troublesome.”

  “Troublesome?”

  “Stop interrupting. You wanted the answer. Let me speak.” Anger tints his words red, a warning to keep my mouth shut. I nod, pressing my lips together as proof of obedience. “Then mysterious things started happening around you. And I like a good mystery. But after this morning and that stunt you pulled with a demon. A demon, Gin. I’m not so sure.”

  I nod. Try to not notice the consuming ache swallowing my stomach. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you still present a good mystery. No Justitian has ever sided with a demon before.”

  “I didn’t side with him. I just stabbed an illusion of him.”

  “Same difference.”

  Not really, but with his tone full of bitterness, I offer a shrug. “I can’t kill him. I don’t know why. Yet. I’ll try talking to it”—I shake the bracelet—“tonight. Maybe it’ll talk back.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll tell you about the conversation.”

  “Will you?”

  “Of course.” Unless the conversation makes me look worse than I already do. “Will you tell me why I have his mark on my neck?”

  “A demon should not be able to mark a Justitian. Or control her. Or get her to do his wishes. You are a first.”

  “So you’re saying you have no idea.”

  “I did not say that. I said you are a first. More research is needed.”

  Translation: he has no idea but refuses to admit failure.

  “Okay. You staying for dinner?”

  He glances at the kitchen clock and back to me. “That time already, huh? Sure. I’m in the middle of a search.”

  “Whatcha searching?”

  “Trying to discover what the good professor worked on. Top secret. Makes it hard to hack the system.”

  “Maybe you should hack the government using some other IP address. I don’t want the FBI storming my house.”

  “Gin, Gin, Gin. I’m better than that. Trust me. I don’t get caught.”

  Right. There’s a first time for everything.

  But he has a point. I pity the agents assigned to bring him in. Smythe the mage, who lobs fireballs and hacks minions with swords versus the FBI with guns. The poor guys don’t stand a chance.

  Smythe huddles over his computer and stays that way while I cook, his fingers alternating tapping a tune on the keyboard and drumming against the table. He appears oblivious to me sitting across from him during dinner, although he manages to offer a thank-you for the meal.

  The thrill of computers over social interaction.

  “I’ll clean up. Just leave it in the sink.” He waves a hand toward the sink, eyes fixated on whatever webpage flashes across the screen.

  “Thanks. I’m going to bed.”

  Dinner and prospective conversation fail to get him to stop staring at the computer, but me hauling ass to my room gets a shocked expression. Go figure.

  “It’s not even eight.”

  “Yeah? Well, you drug me all over God’s green earth today, and I have to work another twelve-hour shift tomorrow, so deal with it. Thanks for cleaning up. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He answers when my hand touches the doorknob to my room. “Good night.”

  ****

  Creak! Noise cracks through my dream, eradicating strands of sleep faster than a beeping alarm clock. Echoes of the distinct sound of butt hitting creaky wooden chair cling to the walls as if waiting for the chance to pounce. I am not alone.

  My senses strain to hear breathing or movement. My heart pounds a racing rhythm as I still, trying to even the fast, startled breathing of wanting-to-gasp lungs. Shadows dance across the wall in front of me as I lay on my side, but the noise came from behind me, from the door. The urge to remain frozen, to pretend like I heard nothing, battles with adrenaline zipping through my veins.

  I can barely make out the sound of air traveling through another’s lungs. Barely. But enough to know I’m not alone.

  Someone is in my room.

  Is it Smythe? Why would he sneak into my room in the middle of the night? No good reason. He, like my twin, would barge in here as if they owned it, slamming the door against the wall, making enough noise to both wake me up and ensure me of a known presence.

  If not either of them, then who?

  Terror seizes me in its maw and shakes. My hands tremble, my palms sticky with sweat. Not a minion. My justitia remains a bracelet.

  A bracelet with a tremor. The tremor grows until the links rattle. A shot of joy chases away the terror, and I realize who sits in my chair.

  I take a deep breath, grab hold of the covers, and roll toward the sound.

  Light trickles through the blinds, dim, but enough to outline a person sitting in the chair near the door. The pounding of my heart slows as terror recedes, as the outline faces me. My justitia vibrates a nice-to-see-you-again tune, making the ID of the intruder a no-brainer.

  Zagan.

  Now I have a whole other set of chills.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

  “Enjoying the view.”

  My hand pauses halfway to the light on my nightstand. No sense in giving the demon-perv a better glimpse. “You know, as much as I like these nighttime visits, you can leave me alone now.” I flick my fingers his direction and hope my being a smartass will stop him from noticing my fingers shaking.

  Some demon huntress I am.

  His chuckle carries hints of darkness and menace. “You know I cannot.”

  “Sure you can. I’m a Justitian. You’re a demon. The two don’t mix.”

  “They told you that?” Disbelief shades his tone.

  “Pretty much.” Not in those exact words, but why be specific? “So what’s with following me around? You can’t turn me into a servant, and the Agency thinks you’re dead so you don’t need to be released from your vow or whatever.”

  After he captured me, he’d told me someone at the Agency had bound him, forced him to promise to capture me and return me to them. Whoever “they” were. Yet another mystery in my life.

  “So much talking. Humans enjoy hearing themselves talk. Demons enjoy hearing humans scream.”

  I’m pretty sure he smiles with those words, but I’m too busy shaking off chills to care. Ignoring my discomfort, he continues.

  “It is not a vow. The person from the Agency bound me to them—”

  “Who was it?” Interrupting a talking demon might not be the smartest move around, but knowing the identity of the guilty party would cut down the time required to discover who wants me dead. Not to mention outing a traitor.

  He snarls. “Part of the vow prohibits me from telling. Or showing. Or in any way disclosing their identity.”

  Well, damn it. “So you can’t tell me who the person was? Not even if it was a man or woman?”

  “Did you not hear what I said? No. You must discover this on your ow
n.” He waves a hand. “As I was saying before you interrupted. Technically the vow is still in effect since I am not dead. But since they believe I am, they should not bother me again. Thanks to you.”

  “Hate to tell you, but Smythe saw through your illusion.”

  Zagan stiffens. “They know I am alive?”

  “As far as I know, no one else caught on, and he didn’t tell them.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  I pause. Then go with the first thing that pops into my head. “Because it would get me in trouble. And be a black mark on his record.” My assumption makes sense, especially the latter. Who wants a warning in their personnel file?

  “Ah. He does not want further black marks.”

  “Further?”

  “The whelp did not mention his black marks, eh?”

  “No.” Not entirely true. Like me, Smythe deals in half-truths and obscurities.

  The hypocrite.

  “Interesting. Very interesting. Everyone else believed the illusion?”

  “As far as I know. No one said otherwise.” The adrenaline no longer pounds through my veins, but Zagan’s presence twists my emotions into a tangle of confusion. I want him to stay. I want him to go. I want to stop experiencing a split personality. “You might want to leave. I’m gonna have to mention to Smythe you showed up.”

  “I see.” He nods, his head moving a slow up and down. “You wish him to trust you.”

  I snap my gaping mouth shut. “How did you know that?”

  “I am a demon who listens. Not all do, no, not all. Those are stupid creatures. Fear raisers, but stupid.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You must take precautions against fear. Don’t let fear conquer you.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “And I’ll continue to say it until you have conquered fear.”

  “Great. Wanna tell me how to conquer fear? Wait. Start by telling me what I fear so badly it needs conquering.”

  He leans back in the chair, wood squeaking at the position shift. “If I told you, it would not be challenging.”

  “Yeah? And why’s that a problem?”

  He chuckles. “Little Justitian, if you are not challenged, you will not learn. You must learn. Train. Conquer. Yes?”

  Sounds like the anthem to a superhero movie. Now starring Gin Crawford and her equally odd twin, Tonic. Yeah. Right. As if everyone needs to know our parents named us after their favorite drink.

  “Whatever. How did you get into my room?”

  “So many questions. You are such a curious creature.” With a creak of the chair, he stands, moves toward me. “So curious.”

  I try to move, to scoot away from him, to activate the justitia, but remain frozen, a mouse mesmerized by a snake. His eyes form dark pits of obsidian, shadows dance in waves across his skin. One hand encircles my justitia, and a jolt of electricity scorches my skin. The justitia answers with its own jolt, a stab of light arcs from the bracelet into the demon, turning his hand and forearm a glowing blue.

  Zagan jumps backward, shaking his hand, and the spell he wove around me breaks, snapping me into movement. I’m on the other side of the bed, standing, covers clutched against my chest like a shield before I realize I moved.

  “What the hell were you trying to do?”

  He stops shaking his hand, his head tilted to the side as if a hawk staring at dinner. “It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” My voice squeaks into a higher octave and I clear my throat. “Were you trying to fry me or something?”

  The second the words leave my lips, the answer comes in a flash of knowledge, the justitia showing me images of the distant past, of magic and demons. Of women twisting spells holding them captive into spells freeing them of demonic influence.

  A past lost. A past morphed into a myth. A past forgotten until now.

  I shake my head, the memories of other Justitians who wore my bracelet disorientating in their intensity. Surely not. Surely I saw the wrong pictures, jumped to the wrong conclusions.

  “I will not fry you. But I will see you again. Until next time. Heed my warning.”

  Zagan raises a hand and disappears in a stench of sulfur, leaving me dazed and unbelieving. Perhaps the bracelet took a lesson from the demon and lied.

  Yeah, right. The one thing I know, the one thing I trust is the justitia. Lying is not in its nature. I might not like what I saw. I might not believe it. But I now understand how my justitia knows Zagan.

  The demon created the damn thing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bam, bam, bam! My door vibrates from a heavy fist. What do people think my bedroom is tonight? Grand Central Station? I glance at the alarm. Two minutes before it’s to go off. Figures.

  “What?”

  “Get dressed!” Smythe’s voice carries none of the sleep noticeable in mine and enough hurry it up for the both of us. “Dr. Sheevers’ lab was just broken into.”

  “Smythe. I have to go to work. What part of that do you not understand?”

  “You need to come with me and look for that demon. Now get dressed.”

  “Work, Smythe. No can do.”

  “Get dressed, and I’ll take you to work afterward.”

  “Fine. But if I’m late you’re explaining what happened to Nurse Hatchet.” My boss is a stickler for punctuality. Late is not in her vocabulary.

  “Deal. Now hurry it up.”

  Five minutes later, I yank open the bedroom door, dressed in my scrubs and sneakers, my eyes puffy from lack of sleep courtesy of Zagan. Demon visits tend to keep one awake for the rest of the night. Especially when they come with more revelations than John the Baptist experienced.

  When I walk into the kitchen, Smythe grabs my arm as he speaks the portal forming words.

  “Wait. I haven’t had—” my coffee never leaves my lips as he thrusts a mug into my hand, never breaking the rhythm of the spell. Gotta love the man. He might not trust me, but he knows me well enough to know I don’t function without a large amount of wake up juice.

  The portal swallows us, the freezing cold a breath stealer, but lucky for me the coffee remains steaming hot when we arrive at the medical school.

  We’re halfway down the hall, striding toward a shield of blue clothed police and security before the caffeine kicks in and my sluggish brain coughs up questions. I grab hold of Smythe’s arm and yank him to a stop.

  “How did you know about the break-in?”

  “You really are slow in the morning.”

  I shake the coffee mug a little and raise a brow. His lips twitch.

  “Police scanner.”

  “Where do you hide that thing? I’ve never seen you with it.”

  The lip twitch becomes a full-on grin. “I hide it in places you haven’t seen. Yet.”

  Attraction slides low in my belly and rolls south. The electricity arcing between us intensifies the longer our gazes lock.

  “Oh?” I lean forward, drop my voice to a whisper. “Where is that?”

  He taps his ear.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ve seen your ear.”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t seen inside it.”

  “Nor will I. Whatcha got in there, a wire thingy?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Must we go through this now?”

  I’m about to say yeah, we must, when Nurse Hatchet’s face pops into my mind. Can’t be late to work. If I continue this conversation then very bad things could happen.

  Like a mark in my personnel file.

  “Fine. But we will go through it. Later. When I get off work. Along with other things.”

  “What other things?”

  I take a sip of coffee, wink and walk toward the blue coats. Smythe steps beside me, his voice pitched low as he grabs my arm.

  “What other things?”

  “My favorite demon stopped by for a chat.”

  “What?” The word echoes against the walls like a hard slap. Every head at the end of the hall turns our direc
tion and one of the cops leaves the pack and strides our way.

  I nudge him in the side. “Look sharp. I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “Like hell you will. You’ll tell me—”

  “Excuse me,” the cop’s voice booms over Smythe’s words. “This is an active crime scene. You can’t be here.”

  After a round of narrowed eyes and a glare strong enough to melt my marrow, Smythe shoves his hand in his back pocket and pulls out his fake badge. A quick open and close, and the cop falls under his spell.

  “Agent Smythe, FBI and this is my consultant. We need to look at your crime scene.”

  “Of course. Right this way.”

  The cop leads us past the swarm of blue-coated security and through a card-coded door propped open by a stack of books. He stops inside the door, one hand gesturing to the back of the room where several plain clothed detectives talk in a huddle.

  “The detective in charge is Zucker.” With those words, he leaves us alone.

  Smythe strides forward, badge and hand extended. Another introduction, another open and close of the badge, and two more of Dallas’s finest fall under his spell.

  “Fill me in on what happened.”

  “This is a locked lab with card access on the hall door. Only the professor and his grad students have access into the lab and only the professor and his doctoral student have access into the biohazard portion.” He tilts his head toward the metal door next to him. “The professor was found dead in his home yesterday, probably homicide. The doctoral student went crazy two days ago, stabbed another student before taking his life.”

  “Yeah, we were called in to that one too.” Smythe nods in a false show of camaraderie.

  “Because of the deaths and the absence of the professor’s access card among his possessions, the hall door was silent alarmed last night. A little less than an hour ago, security noted the alarm going off. When they got here, the hall door was shut, but this door was open a crack. We called in the FBI as soon as we realized what work was being done here, but they said it would be an hour.”

  “We came immediately, but the main force will be here later.”

  The detectives nod as if Smythe’s explanation makes sense. And it’s true. The FBI will show up. Hopefully after we leave.