Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 13

  He might work an awesome spell, but I’d prefer to not take chances.

  “And what was in the lab?”

  “Didn’t dispatch tell you?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “Anthrax. The professor had a contract with the government to work on anthrax.”

  My brows pop so far up my forehead it gives me a headache. Anthrax? Where’s a biohazard shower when you need one?

  Suddenly my coffee no longer appeals. Neither does the mug. The news even shocks Smythe into stunned silence.

  “Are we safe? Was it contained?” My voice squeaks into action.

  “We were told by a grad student that it was contained. This door leads to a chamber and beyond that is where the research took place. We did not look past this door.”

  “Weaponized anthrax?”

  “No idea. The research was secret. That’s why we called you guys.”

  “We’ll look around. The rest of the team needs to arrive before we can enter the lab.”

  This half of the we is not entering that lab. This half of the we is hauling ass out the door. If Smythe wants to look for a demon, he can activate his own damn demon tactical grid.

  I take a step back and he grabs my arm.

  Look for the demon signature first.

  Are you fucking kidding me? Did you hear him? He said anthrax is behind that door. I’m outta here.

  Not until you look around.

  I glare at him.

  He glares back, determination in his eyes.

  I know that look. I’m going nowhere until I do what he wants.

  With a sigh I thrust my mug into his hand and close my eyes. After a few deep breaths, along with rationalization that the anthrax was not going to independently hop out of its container and into me, I tap into the entity residing along my nerves. The justitia responds with a subtle vibration, its answer to my request. When I open my eyes, nothing happens.

  I know the justitia activated the minion/demon sensors in my eyes, but no minion strands or demon energy blob exists in the lab. Thank God. Now I can leave, find a biohazard shower, dump my scrubs and coffee mug, and make it to work on time.

  Then my bracelet vibrates a different tune, one reminiscent of a child hiding from a murderer. What sounds like a thousand claws raking against metal shakes the room, vibrating goosebumps across my skin. Smythe and I turn toward the noise, the detectives remain huddled in their conversation as if they don’t hear the chill-inducing screech. Maybe they don’t.

  Lucky them.

  A red slash appears in the corner, hovering in the air a foot above the meeting of two countertops. Heat pours out as if someone opened a hot oven. Or a passageway to hell.

  Black energy seeps from the growing gash, a weeping sore in the air, heralding the arrival of the demon. My justitia whines, a whimper for my ears only, as it forms a sword.

  “Fuck,” Smythe mutters.

  My thoughts exactly. Demon in a lab with human witnesses.

  And here I thought my nighttime visit from Zagan was the low point of my day.

  “Is it hot in here?” One of the detectives asks.

  I’m too fascinated with the incoming demon to pay attention to the huddle of brown suits, but Smythe mumbles something to them about it being cooler in the hall. The black blob of demon energy grows into a pulsing tumor of death by the time the detectives leave the lab. My justitia longs to join them, which is not exactly confidence inspiring.

  Who the hell was this creature to cause a demon- fighting bracelet to tuck tail and hide?

  Heat and the stench of sulfur explode into the room as the demon crawls through the red gash in the air, landing on the ground in a crouch. A wave of malice coats the air, inducing a strong urge to flee.

  The hair on my arms stands straight. Sweat drops down my back, beading my spinal column in a cylinder of ice. I want to run yet am frozen to the ground, prey caught in the open.

  Red eyes peer from a dark face cracked with a thousand lines, a roadmap to a gruesome death. The cracks extend throughout its skin as if Hell’s oven burned the creature to a crisp before spitting it out. No hair, no eyebrows, no clothes. Its lips curve into a macabre imitation of glee.

  My breath hitches. The justitia lies along the back of my hand in sword form, the bite of cold metal an ache of remembered terror. It’s crossed this demon before and lost. Badly.

  Oh shit. I knew I should’ve stayed in bed.

  I’m two seconds away from taking the justitia’s advice and hauling ass when the creature speaks, its voice like a cheese grater along my nerves.

  “A new Justitian. I like new ones.” It inhales a deep breath. “They smell good.” Its barbed tongue flicks across its cracked lips

  I see my death in its eyes.

  It takes a step toward me, and I take a step toward the door, trying to control my breathing into something less likely to induce dizziness. On my second step, I hit a solid wall of muscle, otherwise known as Smythe. Something tells me he’s about to ix-nay me running away.

  My heart pounds a rhythm of escape, and I ram a shoulder into Smythe’s chest. He stands as steady as a mountain in a windstorm.

  Damn it. What does he have to prove? Running is valid exercise.

  Especially when faced with this demon.

  My guardian steps to my side, one sweaty hand locked on my wrist. Why won’t he run?

  “Ah, a guardian.” The demon stops by the edge of a lab table flashing me a full frontal view.

  I blink several times, a mixture of disgust and relief mingling with the almost overpowering reaction to flee. No reason to be proud of that tiny package.

  The parts hide inside until needed. A remembrance of the justitia’s slams into my mind, releasing a shudder.

  Good God, I hope never to see that again.

  “Who are you, and what do you want here?” Smythe’s tone implies the demon will give a response. He should know better.

  The demon barks a laugh. Another round of chills covers my flesh in bumps. “You are not so stupid to expect an answer. I’m not so stupid as to give you one. You will go to your grave never knowing.”

  A glowing ball of energy appears in its hand. From one blink to the next, the creature releases the ball, aiming for Smythe. My sword moves, deflecting the energy ball into the wall. Plaster explodes, raining debris like hailstones. Small cuts appear along my arm, my hand, blood drips down my face.

  Ouch, ouch, ouch. The pain disappears as the justitia shuts down nerve receptors. Word to the wise, do not throw energy balls into plaster. Flying plaster shards slice through human flesh like a scalpel, but bounce off cracked demon flesh. And judging by the teeth-baring grin of the creature, exploding plaster feels as good to it as a massage.

  My breath catches in my throat. The world turns at a creeping pace, slow enough to see the fine muscles of Smythe’s fingers twitch, to watch sweat drip down his cheek. My mentor lobs a fireball of energy at the demon, who allows the glowing thing to smack him in the chest. Flames die, absorbed by the creature’s cracked skin like parched dirt.

  Ohgodohgodohgod. We’re going to die. We should have run while we had the chance.

  Gin? T’s voice, his presence in my head, penetrates the smothering fear shaking me in its grasp.

  Demon. Bad one. I manage to snap the mental doors between us closed, but his intrusion helped. I no longer want to pee my pants.

  “That all you got, guardian?” Demon holds its hands in the air, forming two glowing balls of light.

  Something shifts inside me, deep inside, as if I possess a never-before-used reservoir, which finally opens wide. A strange energy fills me, leaks from my pores like sweat, fires my nerves with strength.

  By the time Cracked Flesh releases its pitch, that strange internal energy covers me with a fine red sheen, the equivalent of a plastic tarp in a rainstorm. And just like rain does on plastic, the demon energy ball drips down me, pooling at my feet, disappearing into the beige linoleum.

 
; Smythe isn’t so lucky. His shield, if he even formed one, breaks and he flies backward, slamming against a wall before falling face down on the floor.

  The sight of his unmoving body hits me with a jolt of adrenaline. He can’t be dead. I scream his name, but he remains nonresponsive. Anger rushes through me, a waterfall of rage washing away the urge to escape.

  This damned demon is going down.

  I let loose with a cry that would do a karate master proud and swing the justitia at the demon’s head. The sword whistles through air as the demon leaps to my left, his movements a blur.

  What the…

  I slam into the side of the table, my stomach a screaming throb of pain. My brain churns, trying to process how I got here. Wasn’t I just standing?

  The demon grabs my hair, raises my head. I’ve played the demon form of whack-Gin’s-head one too many times not to know the outcome. Putting my free hand on top of its fist, I swing the justitia down and back, blade grazing along the cracked demon flesh. The demon loosens its grip.

  I kick, connecting with the thing’s knee, then twist my body.

  But demons must be impervious to knee kicks because the creature acts like the kick is the equivalent of a tap, tightens its grip and slams my head against the edge of the table.

  Fuzzy spots swarm the edge of my vision. My knees weaken. The demon no longer uses my head as a hammer, but its grip on my hair tightens as it drags my unresisting body along the cool, plaster shard covered linoleum floor. A mixture of rage and fear fires my muscles into movement. My feet gain purchase as my free hand slaps against the demon’s grip on my hair.

  As I rise, I swing the justitia into its upper thighs. Yeah, yeah, not a killing shot, but at the moment it’s impressive I managed to swing the sword instead of collapse upon it.

  The demon yelps and drops its grip on my hair. I scoot backward, using the black lab table to pull myself upright. Fuzzy spots line my periphery, but I draw in a breath and point the justitia at the creature.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Or you’ll do what? Scratch me with that thing again?”

  Yeah. This fight is definitely not going well. I don’t dare glance to Smythe to see if he’s moving—please God, let him be alive—as the demon would use that moment to strike.

  “Leave me alone, and I’ll return the favor.”

  The justitia squeaks, disbelief vibrating along my nerves, its fight instinct overruling the earlier desire to flee. It wants to kill this demon. Wants to rid the world of the creature’s malice.

  Wants to finish this fight with me intact.

  “Favor? You think me leaving you alone a favor?” Its laugh rolls across my skin, dampening my flesh with fright.

  The fear sinks deep inside, down, down, down into that previously unknown reservoir of energy. I close my eyes, focus on that reservoir, grab the energy with both hands, and yank. Energy streams out of its hiding place, coating my skin with a red-hot power.

  Cracked Flesh’s eyes flare. “Impossible.”

  Yep, definitely impossible. Now that the power has made itself known, I have no idea what to do with it. I try to gather it into a ball to pitch at the demon, but nothing happens.

  At least nothing with the energy. Cracked Flesh from Hell busts out a laugh. A marrow chilling cackle. It holds a hand toward me, palm beginning to glow red.

  Oh, shit. This is not good.

  A slap sounds to my left, a palm smacking the linoleum. I risk taking my gaze off the demon to see Smythe lying on his stomach, one palm flush against the floor, the other held toward the demon. Words flow from his lips like a waterfall of Latin, dripping with age and power. The air pulses with magic, beating against my flesh, thickening into an invisible wall that stretches between me and ole crinkle skin.

  Lips pull off yellowed teeth as another laugh booms from its chest. “You think your puny magic can hold me?”

  Double shit. Why won’t my feet run away instead of freezing to the floor?

  Smythe stutters but continues his chant. He’s hurt. Blood runs down his face from a slice along his hairline, and the fact he remains prone instead of upright doesn’t bode well. But he never wavers in his guardian duties even though the demon’s laugh affects him like it does me.

  I don’t even have to use telepathy to know he wants to escape this creature.

  No wonder the justitia fears this thing. How do you win against a creature with skin impervious to everything?

  I will the power cloaking my skin to form a ball. To do something besides hang out and color me an electric red.

  No such luck.

  Red demonic eyes focus on me, its yellowed teeth snapping once as the laugh cuts into silence. “Good-bye, Justitian.”

  I feel my eyes pop wide as a bolt of red-hot demon power fires my direction. And then the room goes black.

  ****

  Cotton stroking my cheek wakes me. I’m disoriented. Wasn’t I standing? Am I standing? I perform a quick body scan, encountering a lot of pains and about to become bruises, but everything remains intact. Prone, but intact. I’m definitely not standing. Not unless the floor shifted directions and became a wall.

  My cheek rests on the cool press of linoleum, my body crumpled in an unnatural—and totally uncomfortable—position. What. The. Hell?

  “She’s coming around.”

  I don’t recognize the voice, and yet I know who’s here. The Agency. We’re saved. Thank God.

  My once again concussed brain whirls in slow motion, trying to pull up the last minutes before blacking out. Smythe. Smythe cast some spell. Where was he?

  Oh God. Did the demon kill him?

  My eyes pop open. An Agency medic squats beside me dressed in white with a blue circle over his left breast, a symbol designating his position. Not that I’ve learned all the symbols, only the medical ones. My sigh of relief turns to anxiety. I don’t see Smythe.

  “Where’s—”

  “Here.” Smythe answers before the rest of the sentence leaves my lips.

  I shove the medic’s hands away and push to an elbow. The room spins a whirling dervish. No wonder the medic wanted me to lay still. But I have to know Smythe is okay.

  He lays feet from me, on a stretcher, a medic attending to the gash on his head. Pain lines bracket his mouth and eyes, but he manages a grin. “You’re okay.”

  “Mostly.” I crawl to him and use the stretcher to pull myself upright. The room swirls a dance as I lean against the side of the stretcher. Good thing the wheels are locked, or I’d shove it sideways. “What was that thing?”

  “A demon?”

  “Now who’s the smartass?” My lips turn as I grab his hand. Alive. Smythe is alive. A sigh of relief travels through me, into him and he starts as if he touched an electrical outlet.

  A pulse fires low in my core, growing stronger the longer my skin touches his. I want to ignore the hum singing through my veins, want to deny the pull, but he saved my ass from annihilation, and I need to tell him thanks.

  But the words stick in my throat, a lump of regret masquerading as an inability to speak. I drop my gaze to our clasped hands. Swallow. Emotions tumble through me. Relief. Regret. Was he still mad at me?

  I raise my eyes. Nope. Not mad. His gaze locks on mine, pulls me into an undertow of longing. Chinks form in his mental walls, allowing me a glimpse into his thoughts, his emotions.

  Definitely not mad. At least not at the moment.

  “We need to get moving.” A mage steps into view, interrupting the silent communion between my mentor and me. “We can’t stop time, and time is almost out. We have one minute before the feds and police barge in here. Go, go, go!”

  A medic grabs my arm, breaking my grasp on Smythe’s hand.

  “See you on the other side.” Smythe gives me a lopsided grin as two medics grab his stretcher, unlock the wheels, and form a portal. They dash through wormhole, the click of the metal stretcher wheels vanishing into the abyss. The medic holding my arm forms his own portal and a dece
ptive rush of warm air flows across my skin.

  “Ready?”

  When we appear in the white landing room of the Agency, the medic hollers for a wheelchair.

  Gin? T’s voice bursts into my head, his words laced with concern.

  Good one, Gin. Forget all about your telepathic twin. I’m okay. Was attacked by a demon but am okay.

  Goddamn it!

  I’m pretty sure it already has been.

  Huh? Never mind. You need to get rid of that fucking bracelet before it kills you.

  I close my eyes. Grit my teeth until my jaw aches. The bracelet is not going to kill me. We’ve already been through this.

  We’re going to go through it again until—

  The door swings open, a wheelchair pushed inside by a fast moving medic, giving me the break needed to stop the impending ass chewing. Gotta run. Am at the Agency, and they’re about to take me to the infirmary.

  The infirmary? How bad are you hurt?

  Not too bad, but Smythe is a mess. Gotta go, can’t talk to you and them. I’ll contact you later. I slam the mental doors between us closed, blocking off his curse, but leaving his anger flowing through my veins like a poison.

  He hates seeing me hurt. Hates feeling my pain. I understand. The times he’s been injured have raked through my soul like claws tearing at tender flesh. But despite my injuries, I like wearing the bracelet.

  Provided I never have to see that scary-ass demon again.

  A couple of breaths later, I’m shoved into the wheelchair and taken to the infirmary along with Smythe and his stretcher. It dawns on me halfway there that I’m due at work. Like an hour ago. And I’m half a continent away.

  This is the first time in my nursing career I haven’t shown up for work. Perhaps that history will sway Ruth, my supervisor. Maybe not. We don’t call her Nurse Hatchet for nothing.

  I reach around and tap the hand of the medic pushing the wheelchair. “I need a phone.”

  You would’ve thought I’d asked for a dragon’s head the way everyone looked at me. Smythe wriggles a bit before being stilled by a medic.

  “There’s one in my back pocket.”

  “Wait until we get to the infirmary.” The medic pushing Smythe’s stretcher pats his shoulder, telling him without words to stop squirming. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. “What’s the rush?”