Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 15

  “It’s Gin. Smythe’s been hurt. We’re in the Agency infirmary. Would you please come heal him?” The words tumble out in a rush as my breath hitches into a high-pitched octave. Smythe glares, reaching for the phone with the speed of a striking snake. I almost fall off the bed but manage to stand as the room spins a dance.

  Eloise doesn’t say anything. Not a yep, not a no way, nothing. I clear my throat at the dead silence. “Hello?”

  A rush of warmth smacks my nape, raising hairs. I yank the phone away from my ear, twisting to see the cause.

  Eloise stands on the other side of my former bed, a phone held against her ear.

  One hand stretches toward me, and I reach across the bed and grab her palm. No emotional reading, unlike the first time I touched her and caught a glimpse into the landscape of a blind woman. Ever since Smythe informed her of my little touch-and-see problem she forms the same blank mind he does. It’s nice.

  And equally annoying. I never realized how much I depended upon my despised freakish ability until I met people who hid their emotions behind cement mental barriers. Around these two, I’m no different than anyone else. Correction. Make that no different than any other Justitian.

  Before I can tell her thank-you for coming, Smythe’s voice explodes into irate prickling needles. “What the hell, Gin? I told you not to call.”

  I shrug, not that Eloise sees it. “You need help.”

  “I do not.”

  A grin twists Eloise’s lips. “It’s nice to see you too, Aidan.”

  Her head tilts as she tightens her grasp on my hand. “You are also hurt.”

  “Not as bad as he is. He’s—”

  “In the bed next to this one. Yes. I know.” She drops my hand and I stand there like a fish out of water, all open eyed and gaping mouth. Wasting no time, she marches around the bed to stand by me.

  As if her red eyes have no problem seeing.

  Maybe she’s familiar with the infirmary. Yeah, that’s it. She is, after all, a healer.

  Eloise glances between the two of us, her sightless eyes seeing more than they should, taking in more than the feel of our injuries. Smythe closes his eyes and smacks his head once, twice against the pillow.

  “Do I even want to know how you were able to portal into the infirmary?”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to remember that the only way to get into the Agency was through the teenage geek guarded landing room.

  Her lips turn up, the wicked grin belying her serene composure. “I’m not one for rules.”

  According to Smythe, spells cover this building, repelling all attempts to portal anywhere but the landing room. What kind of magic does she possess to break that kind of a spell? Yet another mystery to solve. The case of the rule-breaking healer.

  Eloise lays a hand on Smythe’s arm, releasing a frisson of his remaining tension. “What happened?”

  “Tried to contain a demon.”

  “This scary assed, cracked flesh demon almost killed me, but Smythe stopped it.” I lower myself to the bed as I speak. The longer I stand the more I realize upright is not my friend.

  “Cracked flesh?” One pale hand moves to Smythe’s forehead and his eyes slide closed. He sighs, the deep release of a man whose anger and pain eased into a relaxing sleep.

  “It looked like it’d been burned in an oven and spat out. Cracks all over its skin. No hair. Scarier than the zombie apocalypse. The moment it showed up I was convinced I was going to die.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like a fear demon to me. Now hush.”

  I file her demon assessment for later, too engrossed in watching her heal. A wave of bright blue light streams from her hands down Smythe’s body, darkening as it flows. Royal blue light splashes against his boots before hovering a few inches above his body.

  The times Eloise healed me, I floated in a sea of blue, waves washing against my flesh as if I bobbed on an ocean swell. Peaceful. Relaxing.

  Now I can see what a healing looks like from the other side.

  Not as peaceful. Or at least I’m not at peace. And I have to keep quiet and not ask the thousand questions pinging in the back of my mind. Which, oddly enough, is not hard considering I’m fascinated by the little pulses of blue light flickering above his injuries. Bruising lightens, fading into the tan of his skin until it disappears.

  Eloise rocks.

  She hasn’t even healed me, and already tension in my shoulders eases, my breath evening. The longer she works on Smythe, the more relaxed I feel, though I’m still far from peaceful.

  I almost lost my life, my mentor, and my job. And worse, I suspect the demon appeared a bit late to catch the anthrax thief.

  Or the anthrax.

  A chill creeps down my spine like a slow moving spider. I don’t need a PhD to realize anthrax plus demon equals a large mess I don’t want to be anywhere near.

  So who else wants the dead professor’s life work?

  And can we keep the demon from catching them?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eloise removes her hand from Smythe’s head, leaving his body coated with the blue healing energy.

  “Lie down, and I’ll work on you too.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll heal.”

  Her mouth twitches. Great. I now sound like my mentor. Embarrassing. I swallow and offer her a lopsided grin.

  “Guess I sound like Smythe, eh?”

  She returns my grin. “Only on that one issue.”

  “Not on others?”

  Her grin widens. “Are you going to lie down or quiz me?”

  “Working on it.” I swing my feet onto the bed and ease back onto the pillow.

  “Sleep.”

  Her hand comes toward me and the world turns to blue. Blue skies. Blue ocean. Blue waves. A white froth of peace breaks over me, drawing me into its depths, rolling me in unconsciousness.

  Disorientation smacks into me, bobbing me out of my peaceful ocean and into the pink hue of a humming florescent light. Where am I? One blink later, and I remember.

  The infirmary. Eloise. Smythe.

  Smythe.

  I turn my head, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I held when I see him lying on the bed next to mine. Where’s Eloise? I push up to an elbow, looking around the room. No sign of the healer. Did I imagine her visit?

  A quick touch of my face and glance to my arms proves none of my injuries remain. Definitely didn’t dream up her visit.

  I suppose she returned to wherever it was she lived. Or worked. Or hung out. Was there a bar specifically for albino healers?

  Yeah. Right. Even if there was, I can’t see Eloise sitting on a bar stool sipping a drink.

  And why am I even thinking about her social life, or lack thereof, when my injured mentor lies only feet away?

  I swing my legs off the bed and shuffle to his side. A quick peek under the gauze winding around his head shows smooth skin, no sign of the cut. I pull back the sheet, exposing his thigh. No gash.

  “Checking out the merchandise?”

  At the sound of his deep voice, I drop the sheet and take a step back, heat splashing into my cheeks. Busted.

  “Nope. Checking out the vanishing gash.”

  “You shouldn’t have called her.”

  “You shouldn’t be so stubborn.”

  “Pot. Kettle.” His lips twitch, but his eyes glare steel shards.

  I cross my arms, swallow, and pretend he’s a disobedient patient instead of an irate mage with large fists and strong magic.

  Easier thought than done.

  I straighten my shoulders, my fingers clenched tight against my palms, and force a smile. “You weren’t healing fast enough. I don’t like to see you in pain.”

  Both brows try to meet his hairline. “You don’t?”

  “What? You think I’m some sort of sick sadist and like to see people hurt?”

  “Okay. When put like that.”

  My fingers uncurl. “Yeah. Besides, you called her on me.”

  “That was d
ifferent. You were hurt bad both times.”

  “And you weren’t? That thing threw you across the room. I thought you were dead.” My voice cracks, and I clear the damn thing. My breath comes in little hitches like I’m about to cry.

  I am not about to cry. Am not. Am not. Am not.

  Smythe blinks a couple of times. “I’m okay, Gin.” The smooth tone of his milk chocolate voice soothes that twisted center deep inside my chest, straightens the tangles of fear.

  See? No reason to be afraid. Smythe would never hurt me. I really need to get over these stupid gut reactions.

  I reach out a hand. “I’ll help you up.”

  Electricity zips up my arm from his palm on mine, zips straight to my core, and ignites a fire. Multiple beds. One hot mentor. Nowhere to be any time soon.

  What the hell am I thinking? Rules, Gin, rules.

  But he feels the zingers of heat too, judging by the way his eyes narrow, the licks of fire hiding in their depths. His grip lingers a little too long, his gaze drops to my lips. My breath quickens, heat builds in my veins, races to my center. The room narrows to him and me, the sounds of our breath, the feel of his skin against mine.

  I can almost smell the musky aroma of heat coming off our flesh. But I know better than to act on it. Having an attraction right after losing a lover is one thing. Acting on it borders on tacky. Not to mention the whole boss thing.

  I release Smythe’s hand. He clears his throat, his grip tightening on the sheet until his fingers turn white.

  Must be a reaction to near death. Yeah, that’s it. We both had our asses handed to us and now we want to reaffirm life. Nothing other than biology.

  Fake it till you make it.

  “Now what?” I sit on my bed facing him.

  He blinks. Clears his throat again. “Let’s go to my apartment, and we can discuss it. I need to get dressed. Think there’s a hospital gown around here somewhere? Not everyone wants to see my ass flapping in the wind.”

  “First off, it’s not flapping. Second, I have no idea where things are kept. Just wrap the sheet around your middle. It’s a new fashion statement. Especially with the boots.” I waggle my brows.

  He shakes his head but stands and wraps the sheet around his middle without allowing me to get a peek. I’m not disappointed. Really.

  I’m such a freakin’ liar.

  I pick up his sliced, discarded clothing, catching up to him at the elevator. “Thought you might want these. They sliced them up the seams. Maybe you can fix ’em.”

  “Fix them? You mean sew?” His tone implies he’d rather lop off his favorite body part.

  “What? Afraid of a little needle?” I offer him a grin as the elevator dings a welcome.

  One brow raises, silent talk for not likely. “Afraid?” He steps inside, pushing the button for the third floor. “There’re much better things to be afraid of than a sewing needle.”

  “I see. You can’t sew.”

  He shakes his head but doesn’t refute me. I can sew. Maybe I’ll exhibit my meager skills and repair his clothes.

  The trip to his third floor apartment is uneventful. No one in the elevator. No one in the halls. No one but us. Uneventful and odd. In a high-rise building, shouldn’t someone be around?

  Smythe punches in a series of numbers, which pop the lock on his door. He steps inside, heads straight for his bedroom, the sheet flapping around his knees.

  I shut the door, drop his clothes on the couch and get a drink of water. I want an entire case of beer, but we can’t always get what we want. And I’ve been good for the last nine years. No excessive drinking.

  A near-death experience by a demon is no reason to break my winning streak.

  Smythe walks in the room as I finish my second glass. I point the empty glass his direction and give it a little shake.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I grab a new glass out of the cabinet, fill it with water and hand it to him. “What now?”

  “Your place. After you change clothes, we’ll go to the med school and track the demon.”

  “Track the demon?” A shudder rolls through me. The last thing I want to do is get anywhere near that demon. A shiver rattles the bracelet, the justitia letting me know it agrees. The less to do with that particular demon, the better.

  “Hunting demons is part of your job, Gin. You must set aside your fear.”

  You must conquer fear.

  Isn’t that what Zagan kept telling me?

  “Which demon was that? Eloise thought it might be a fear demon.”

  He pauses, brows stitching together for a moment before relaxing. “I’ve never met a fear demon.”

  “Well, it was frightening.”

  “That’s why they’re called demons.”

  Zagan’s not that scary sits on my tongue, and I swallow the words. Zagan is so scary. Just not in the same way. Zagan threatens something deep inside, calls to a part of me I pretend does not exist, as if I’ve known him my entire life.

  Probably because my justitia thinks of him as a friend. Yeah, that’s the reason. It’s not me who knows him, the feeling stems from the relationship between him and my bracelet.

  A month ago I would’ve checked myself into Blue Shores for that thought. Now? It’s par for the day.

  “Gin? You with me?”

  “Sorry.” Head in the game, Gin. Lost in thought in front of Smythe is not a good place to be. He might decide to hop inside my mind and see what’s going on. “Was replaying the fight.”

  “Yeah. That can happen sometimes.”

  The stare from narrowed eyes bores into me. What feels like feathers brushes against my mind, gentle, soft, a touch to disregard. I slam my mental barriers in place.

  Not that my barriers can keep him out.

  The feathers vanish. “Good job. Stronger barrier that time. What are you hiding?”

  Shit. So much for hoping he didn’t notice. Heat smacks my cheeks. “Nothing. Ready to go? I’d like to soak these scrubs before they’re ruined.”

  He continues to stare for a second too long, a reminder that although he respects my mental barrier, he can get in at will. “After you.”

  I’m out the door and halfway to the elevator before he catches me. I need to stop hiding things if I want to regain his trust. But Zagan is personal. I told Smythe most of it. The what-happened-when parts. The who-said-what parts.

  The who-feels-what parts are mine and mine alone.

  Smythe pushes the button like he possesses a grudge, a sharp jab, and a glare. As if it realizes a disgruntled mage stands in the corridor, the elevator promptly dings a hello-there, doors sliding open.

  A few minutes later we stride into the landing room, the teenage computer geeks—I mean mages-in-training—ignore us as Smythe forms a portal in the corner. Some watch dogs they are. Do they even check who comes in and out? Did they notice Eloise popped into the infirmary instead of coming through this room?

  I grab Smythe’s arm and follow him into the freezing depths of a swirling kaleidoscope of lights. We arrive in my living room to the sound of a wheezing air conditioner.

  I really need to get that thing fixed.

  But first, a change of clothes. A girl can’t think right with blood—her blood—staining her clothes.

  “Give me a sec.” Not bothering to see where Smythe heads, since I know the answer—laptop—I dart into my bedroom and shut the door.

  Light shines through slits between the blinds. I might keep them closed during the day, but plenty of light still makes it into my room. So much for trying to keep out the warming sunlight. On the plus side I can see well enough to grab another pair of panties and a bra without flipping on the light.

  I’m happy to note the lack of Zagan. Not so happy to note the lack of Blake’s ghost.

  Why do I expect things I know I can’t have? Even if his ghost visits me nightly, I could only see him if I touch my twin. And who wants to touch their brother while having a conversation with their lover?

  No
t my cup of tea.

  Time to accept he’s dead and move on. Easier said than done.

  Shoving away the maudlin thoughts, I take my underthings into the bathroom, throw them on the closed toilet lid and take a shower. A speedy shower. To appease Smythe’s hurry-hurry-hurry attitude.

  As if he’d do much more than glare and tap his wrist.

  Shower finished and new clothes on, I march into the living room. No surprise to find Smythe feet propped on the coffee table, laptop whirring a happy find-the-information tune.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  His fingers pause, eyes meeting mine. “Wondering why the demon was in the lab.”

  “That one’s easy. It was after the anthrax.”

  “The anthrax was missing.”

  “Maybe he got that memo a little late.”

  Smythe gestures for me to sit beside him. I take a seat, my arm brushing against his, an unwanted wave of do-me-now crashing through my body. I scoot over an inch, severing contact. Why does the touch of his skin affect me that way? When I touch anyone else, I feel their emotions and occasionally their thoughts. When I touch Smythe, I just want to fuck him.

  Maybe I shouldn’t complain. The man is a fantasy in the flesh. He cooks, he cleans, he saves my ass on a regular basis, and he can carry on a conversation. Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t complain.

  Blanking my internal conversation before he dips into my head and sees what I want to do to him, I focus instead on the computer. I’m no longer surprised to see a classified website on the screen.

  When we first started working together his hacking scared the shit out of me. What if the police traced it back to my house and locked me away for life? I’ve learned since then to be chill about the matter. If the man can bespell cops into believing he worked for the FBI, then he can protect himself from being discovered.

  I think.

  “Are we still going to the med school?” I could’ve had a longer, more relaxing shower if all we’re doing the rest of the day is sitting around staring at a computer.

  He runs a hand through his black hair and stares at the screen. “Might as well. I’m having no luck on here. Let’s see if we can track the demon.”