Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 16

  He closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. A few seconds later, we’re at the medical school, arriving in a deserted hallway.

  “How do you always know no one will see us arrive?”

  “Luck.” Twinkling eyes are the only clue he’s not serious. “First the lab. Then back to where the demon tried to make a minion out of the grad student.”

  “Lead the way.”

  My justitia tingles where the silver links touch my arm as if it wakes from a long sleep. A comfort knowing it’s there. Even if Cracked Flesh scares it half to death.

  We stop in front of the lab. Yellow crime scene tape stripes the door like an extra-large bumblebee, a warning to keep out. No one guards the door, probably since the keypad offers a deterrent to most thieves.

  Smythe holds his hand over the keypad, his brow furrowed, then he punches in a series of numbers. The lock pops open, and he turns the handle.

  “Someone needs to build a better lock.” He pushes wide the door, ducking and stepping around the tape.

  “Someone needs to follow the law.” I step over the tape, ducking to avoid the higher stripe.

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  He waits until I’m through the tape, then shuts the door, turning the handle so the lock snicks quietly in place. All sealed in.

  “Think they have cameras in here?”

  “Probably.” He strides to where the demon appeared, his hands slamming against his hips as he stops.

  I peer into the corners of the ceilings, not finding a camera. Maybe it’s hidden as an object in the room. “Shouldn’t we check?”

  “Why? No one can see us. My spell blacks out the camera view.”

  “Nice.”

  I walk to his side. A shudder runs through me, through the justitia, a remembrance of the demon appearing right where we now stand. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. What if the creature reappeared? What would we do?

  Stop borrowing trouble, Gin.

  My voice? Or the justitia’s? It’s getting hard to tell. Maybe I do need a visit to Blue Shores.

  We stand there for some time, me with my eyes closed, fighting to control my breathing and heart-rate, and Smythe, who doesn’t seem as panic stricken as me. Jealous much, Gin?

  Since he’s going to ask me to activate the minion finding sensors in my eyes, I focus on that task, giving up on obtaining calm breaths. Finding the entity living along my nerves, I pull it across my eyes, a small vibration in the bracelet letting me know I succeeded.

  Another deep breath in and out, and I open my eyes to a clash of colors, black predominant in the mix. Inches from where we stand floats a pulsing ball of demon energy signature, black ribbons of evil fading into deep red, crimson stains of blood. The crimson ribbons trail into the inner lab, the lab containing the anthrax.

  Or where the anthrax used to be stored.

  I’m drawn to the inner door, following the lines like a creepy GPS map, Smythe keeping pace behind me. The door has a little window in it, and I peer inside. The room leads to another door, this one metal. A biohazard bunny suit hangs from a hook like a dead rabbit.

  The demon trail leads through the door into the lab beyond. And back out to where it portalled in.

  “I’m not going in there, and you can’t make me.”

  Smythe looks through the window and shrugs. “Okay. The police went inside earlier. I’ll look up their report when we get back. Does it look to you like the demon left the same way it came in?”

  “Yep. So, the thing has to use the same portal coming and going?”

  “That’s what it looks like it did. I wonder if it took any of the anthrax.”

  “I thought it was all stolen.”

  “Can’t say. I’ll look at the report. You notice if it went anywhere else?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Same. Let’s go to the spot where it first appeared.”

  We leave the same way we entered, sneaking under the tape, closing the door with a barely audible click. Gin Crawford super-spy.

  “Is this what Justitians around the globe do every day?” My training—while big on defense moves—lacked most of the day-to-day operations of a Justitian. Except for the kill the demon or minion spiel. Which fell into the no-shit-Sherlock category.

  “They’re more likely to track minions on a daily basis than demons. Minions commit the crimes. Justitians track the minions.”

  “So what you’re saying is that I’m part of a crime fighting ring. Like a superhero. A demon huntress superhero.”

  He shakes his head. “Anyone ever told you you’re a goof?”

  “Aw, Smythe. You really know what to say to girl.” I touch my chest and bat my eyes.

  Another head shake forms his answer.

  A goof? That’s a new one. A freak, sure. Oddball, yep, been there done that. But a goof?

  Maybe he has his terminology mixed up.

  “Do you know why the Agency’s computer didn’t record which demon appeared?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Speaking of. If Zagan appeared to me the other night, why didn’t someone at the Agency call? Shouldn’t they have known?”

  Smythe stops so fast I almost give myself whiplash turning to look for him.

  “They didn’t, did they?”

  The squint of his eyes indicates his lack of happy happy.

  “Excuse me!” A tall, brown-haired woman in her early twenties carrying a large box stands behind Smythe, who scoots to the side of the hall in order for her to pass.

  She toddles off, giving him a brief nod, as she heads in the direction of the original demon appearance. I fail to stop the cascade of shivers tingling my spine.

  Jezebeth almost killed me by slamming my head repeatedly against concrete. Zagan kidnapped me, tried to turn me into his servant and popped by for a night visit. But remembering either of them lacks the same visceral sense of wrongness Cracked Flesh inspires.

  Just thinking about where he appeared in this hall gives me the willies.

  I look back to Smythe in time to see his eyes widen at something over my shoulder. I spin around when a scream and a heavy thud echo down the hall.

  The tall, brown-haired woman who passed us carrying a box has both hands held out, the box on the floor the cause of the loud thud. A short blonde woman wielding a knife takes a swing, her aim connecting against the brown-haired woman’s arm. Brown-hair’s pain-filled scream activates the justitia, the sword thrusting out of the bracelet faster than I can say howdy.

  Knife wielding blondie is not a woman. She’s a minion.

  I’m not sure who screams louder, the minion or the woman she’s attacking. Don’t really care either. I take off running down the hall.

  By the time I reach the minion, clusters of people hang out of doorways watching the fight. I shove the injured, brown-haired woman aside as I raise my sword, blocking the knife’s downward swing. A couple of phone cameras flash, the light a distraction, a worrisome tingle on the back burner of my thoughts.

  The minion’s pupils occupy her irises, turning the color a soul searing black. She screams again, but this time no cameras flash, no sounds emerge of terrified observers. A part of me wonders why. Most of me focuses on the minion.

  The blonde minion who shoves the knife into her stomach. What the fuck?

  She folds forward, sinking to her knees, her gaze rising to meet mine. Black fades to brown, the pupils shrinking as her blood stains the white tiles.

  “Possessed.” Her whisper shatters my heart.

  When I first became a Justitian I worried that minions would want to repent, to renounce the demon inside, to be exorcised. Experience coupled with advice proved otherwise.

  But this woman’s frantic plea seemed like she wanted to be free of the part of the demon living inside her. And how exactly do I go about doing that?

  My arm moves before my brain sends it a reminder, courtesy of the justitia. The sword slices across her arm and
stays embedded in her flesh. A moan leaves her lips. But the gray mist of the demon escapes the cut, sizzling to death on the justitia.

  The sword stays imbedded in her arm until the gray mist stops flowing. Running footsteps mean someone comes to help.

  Or arrest me. Anytime the justitia wants to recall the sword would be good.

  Like it heard me, the sword vanishes into the silver links.

  The former minion sags forward, falling onto the floor, one hand grasping the knife handle, blood covering her skin. She needs medical attention. Lucky for her, she’s on a medical campus.

  A quick glimpse shows campus security and white coated professors or doctors rushing our way. I lean forward, my lips against her ear.

  “What did the demon want you to do?”

  “Office. Dead.” Lashes flutter against pale cheeks as I’m shoved out of the way.

  Was she referring to Dr. Sheevers’s office?

  Security kneels on one side of the blonde woman, the white coat on the other. Another white coat attends the brown-haired woman the minion injured.

  Scooting like a crab, I give them room to work. I want to run. Did my picture go viral?

  Nope. Cameras are easy to erase. Smythe’s telepathic voice sounds strained. I turn, left, then right, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Hiding behind a spell. None of the cameras captured you. Act normal.

  Normal? No problem. I’ve been pretending to be normal my entire life.

  “Ma’am?” A security guard squats in front of me, sharp blue eyes taking in my blood-spattered appearance. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  I run a shaky hand through my hair, leaving the tremor in place. No faking the shaking. “The injured lady was attacked by this knife-wielding woman”—I gesture to the former minion—“I shoved her out of the way, deflected the knife and then the woman stabbed herself. Why would she do that?”

  Maybe the last sentence was a bit too much, but it seemed appropriate. And since my hands trembled, the shake in my voice gave an added touch. The guard’s eyes turn sympathetic. Thank God. Sympathetic beat out accusatory any day.

  “It’ll be okay.” He lands an awkward pat on my shoulder after a brief pause, like he wanted a blood-free spot to show support.

  Nice. I must look worse than I think.

  “Were you hurt?”

  “No. The blood’s not mine.”

  “You’ll need to stay here until the police come. Okay?”

  “Sure. No problem. Can I wash my hands?”

  “No. Not yet. Just sit against the wall.” He points, and I scoot backward, hands held up, until my back rests against cool tile.

  As soon as he turns back to the injured women, Smythe sits beside me.

  “Thought you were hiding.”

  “Can’t hold it.”

  I turn, take in his pale face, sweat beading around his hairline, the sag of his shoulders. I start to holler at someone, stopping myself at the last minute. As if anyone in this hall could help a mage who burned through magic.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Will be. Had to erase all the cameras. Was drawing attention to myself, everyone was staring, so I had to hide behind a spell. I tried to fuzz everyone’s recall about seeing you with a sword, but not sure if I succeeded. Took a lot of magic.”

  “And you were just injured earlier today. Even with Eloise’s healing, I’m sure this didn’t help. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Don’t apologize. You killed part of the demon. Didn’t realize you could stab a minion without killing it.”

  “You learn something new every day.”

  Smythe leans his head against the cool tile wall, his lashes resting against his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a stone angel. He snorts.

  Right. Telepathic mage. Mental barriers, Gin, mental barriers.

  I start to pat his hand, decide he doesn’t want my blood-stained hands anywhere near his, and focus on the crime scene. By now, several paramedics swarm around both women, while security herds witnesses into the room directly across from where I sit. Even though Smythe tampered with the scene, I can only imagine what the witnesses have to say.

  Some chick goes crazy with a knife and another one slices her with a sword.

  Maybe security will think everyone too high to give witness.

  It could happen.

  The police show right when the paramedics lift the former minion onto a stretcher. After a brief chat with security, one of the detectives heads my way, another goes toward the victim. Heat splashes against my cheeks as the detective walks toward me.

  He’s the same detective who interviewed me about Will’s shooting. Right after I killed the minion who shot my doctor friend. Poor Detective Williams had to drive out to my house, which had become a crime scene for my first minion kill, for the interview.

  At the time, I was under the impression I’d already recounted my version of events to the police. But Smythe, as I discovered, was not part of the force as he’d led me to believe. Bad mentor. I might have forgiven Smythe for the mix-up, but the good detective kneeling before me clearly remembers my face.

  Great.

  “Don’t I know you?” Piercing brown eyes focus on me, a hawk eyeing its prey. He clearly knows the answer. Must be one of those detective things. Ask a question you know and see if the answer is as truthful.

  “Yes.” I swallow, risking a glimpse to Smythe. A bead of sweat snakes down his too-pale cheek. His lips move, but no words escape. Was he casting a spell? Why? I focus on the detective, who pays no attention to Smythe. Because of a spell? Or he only cares what I saw?

  Detective Williams clears his throat, snapping me out of my thoughts and into the scene. “Sorry. You came to my house to interview me about Dr. Wonderliech’s shooting. He’s out of the hospital in case you haven’t heard.”

  Rule number one when dealing with detectives: Don’t ramble. A rule I obviously had trouble following.

  But the detective only nods. “I heard. Case closed.” His eyes narrow and I resist the urge to squirm like a child put on the spot in class. “Interesting that you show up and stop another attempted murder. What were you doing here?”

  “I’m considering going back to school and wanted to tour the campus.”

  He blinks as if surprised I have higher ambitions. Not sure what that says about me, but twin tendrils sprout hurt and anger.

  “And do what?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What kind of degree?”

  “Nurse practitioner. Or maybe Physician’s Assistant.”

  “You realize this is a research building, not where the admission offices are.”

  “It’s an unguided tour. Just thought I’d walk around.” Learn about a demon. Get a little exercise. Sweat sneaks down my spine. “The victim walked by carrying a box and, the next thing I know, she’s screaming. This crazy lady has a knife and is slashing at her and no one is helping so I run down the hall, push the hurt woman aside but before I can knock the knife out of the crazy lady’s hand, she stabs herself with it. It was weird.”

  The detective stops writing and meets my gaze. “You seem to have a knack for finding yourself in these situations.”

  “Not a knack. A fluke. Trust me, I don’t like seeing crime victims.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe I should have phrased it differently. I can almost see the wheels turning in the detective’s mind, deducing I’m some sort of crazy who likes the attention from saving others. I would correct myself, but then he’d think I’m trying to distract him from what I just said.

  So I opt for my best innocent smile. As if I threw in a dose of Smythe’s compulsion, the detective’s eyes glaze, and he nods.

  “We need to do some swabs and take pictures and then you can go. I already have your name and address.”

  What’s worse? Being on the police radar? Or having Zagan know where I live?

  Hard choice.

  CSI buzzes around me, ignoring Smythe who continues to perform his st
one angel impersonation, and takes the required samples. A photographer has me stand and snaps bloodstains. Yet another clothing choice bites the dust.

  At this rate I’m going to be naked. Or have to shop for a whole new wardrobe.

  And why am I complaining about shopping?

  When they finish, the detective gestures that I can leave and wash my hands. I look at my hands, then at Smythe, knowing he needs a hand up despite the dried blood coating my palms, but he waves me off.

  They can’t see me. Go wash your hands then wait for me outside the restroom.

  I do as he says, speed walking past the crime scene to the restroom at the end of the hall. After washing the blood off my hands, I push open the door, giving me a direct glimpse of the crime scene. When he sees me, Smythe stands, using the wall as a crutch, both to rise and to walk. My fingers itch to help, but he’s right. If he’s cast some sort of invisibility spell, then it would look odd for me to act like I’m escorting an invisible man down the hall.

  I’m already flirting with the good detective thinking I’m suspect.

  So I wait. Smythe staggers beside me, leaning against the wall with a sigh.

  “Do I need to call T to pick us up?”

  His eyes snap open, his gaze blue glaciers of ire. “I’m not that bad.”

  Right. I nod so as not to bruise his fragile male ego. He can barely walk, let alone form a portal. “Okay. We can come back after you rest up.”

  “I don’t need to rest up. I just need to sit.” He eyes a padded bench around the corner, aiming his lurching body toward the thing like it’s a lifejacket, and he’s a drowning man. He shakes off my helping hand, relying on the wall for support.

  Whatever. That did not hurt my feelings.

  “Circle around and see if it’s the same black blob of demon energy who turned the woman.”

  “She said she was possessed. I asked her what the demon wanted and she said, ‘office’ and ‘dead.’ I’m assuming she's referring to Dr. Sheevers?”

  Smythe collapses onto the bench. “Looks like we need to check out his office too. Isn’t it close to where we were?”

  “Yeah. I think so. Why does the demon want in his office? Wasn’t it bad enough to try to steal his, um, work?”

  “Circle around and check out the demon signature. Come back, and we’ll go check out the office.”