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  Tingles zip straight to my core, firing warmth in my lower belly. Yeah, I can see myself getting down and dirty with Donny, but why would I want to when Smythe stands by my side. I’d rather do the horizontal mamba with my mentor.

  I’m not sure whether to be happy or sad with that realization.

  I swallow. “Good game. Until that ref’s call.”

  His lips press together. “I caught that damn ball.”

  “You did.” Jackie touches his arm, and I can almost see the steam rise from T’s head. “That ref was an idiot.”

  “A fucking idiot,” T adds.

  Smythe grips my shoulder. Still jealous? Yeah, right, whatever. I glance at him, but he’s not even looking at us. His gaze fixates on the bar, on the crowd cheering on some drinker. Why does it not surprise me Crazy Larry stands on a chair, a beer in each hand, chugging one down?

  I’m starting to get embarrassed for him.

  Donny turns to the cheering crowd, his eyes narrowing. Crazy Larry notices and points an empty beer cup at Donny.

  “It’s Donny Slick-Fingered Football!” For a dude who’s put away at least three beers in the last ten minutes, his words sound normal, not slurred.

  And they hit their target.

  The entire room falls silent, the only noise the pounding bass beat of the stereo. Donny seems to expand, as Crazy Larry’s words strike sore nerves. The DJ seems oblivious to the impending session of whoop-ass heading his way. Little India tries to yank on his arm, but he shakes her off. After an eye roll and head shake, she turns her back on him and walks into the crowd. As if that was a cue, everyone but us and Donny starts talking again, ratcheting up the noise level.

  Jackie reaches for Donny, but he’s walking toward Crazy Larry, the four of us following in his wake, as if to get a better view of the upcoming smackdown.

  “That little punk is about to get his ass handed to him in a bag.” Smythe shakes his head. “Stupid idiot.”

  “He probably thinks he’s being funny.”

  Smythe shoots me a get-real glare. “Right, Gin. He has to know he’s behaving like an ass.”

  My response freezes on my tongue as Donny steps up to Crazy Larry.

  “What did you say?” Donny’s hands ball at his sides, his voice vibrating with anger.

  The DJ takes a sip of beer, playing like he doesn’t see his death written in the football star’s gaze. “I said, you were slick-fingered.”

  Donny’s nostrils flare as leans toward Crazy Larry. “You sure you wanna go there with me?”

  A security guard shoves me into Smythe, his touch so quick it barely leaves a read. The guard pulls Donny back several feet, stopping him from knocking Crazy Larry off the chair. Another guard grabs the DJ, ignoring his hey-hey-get-your-hands-off-me complaints.

  Once again the room falls silent only to burst into noise as the main attraction gets pulled apart. Lesson learned: even charitable guys lose their temper when mocked by middle-aged drunk DJs.

  Not that I blame Donny. Crazy Larry’s escort out of the suite by security only brings cheers.

  As soon as the DJ leaves, Donny relaxes, and the guard releases his arm. Just in time for a second guard to rush over to whisper in the first guard’s ear. Donny ignores them both, opting to glare at the door as if he wants to run after the DJ.

  The first guard’s eyes widen as he turns to his co-worker, his face paling. Clearly not good news.

  But my mentor is all over the gossip, his head cocks to the side as if he’s using telepathy to listen in.

  Rude, but effective. Until I met Smythe, I could only use telepathy to talk to T. Smythe can telepathically eavesdrop on almost anyone, either as a side effect of being a mage or as an inborn gift; he won’t tell me which one. Luckily for me, he taught me mental barriers to keep him out of my mind.

  Unfortunately, the guard had no such practice, his mind becoming an open book to Smythe’s prying.

  Smythe turns to me, his eyes wide.

  They just found a woman’s body by the Dumpster.

  Chapter Two

  “What?” The word slips out before I can stop it. But loose lips happen when shock and surprise strike. Smythe narrows his eyes, and I press my lips together. No sense in giving away our telepathic ability. Sorry. You mean here?

  Where else would the stadium security mean?

  Right, right. That’s awful. Was she killed?

  He doesn’t know.

  Sympathy for the woman and her family fill my thoughts. What happened? Was she killed, or did she kill herself? I hate hearing about dead women found in suspicious circumstances.

  The two security guards hustle from the room, neither giving us a glance, unaware of Smythe’s telepathic eavesdropping. Donny stares after them, his fingers fisting, clearly still thinking of Crazy Larry.

  We need to go check it out. Smythe’s voice snaps my attention from Donny to him.

  You think it’s a minion attack? Minions tend to hide their victims in or around Dumpsters. Not too original, but a help for us when trying to decide which crime scenes to investigate.

  It has the Dumpster marking. Could just be a junkie who overdosed.

  I suppose you mean to leave now? I haven’t gotten an autograph.

  Do you really want to see if Crazy Larry escapes the guards and returns to get his ass beat?

  Good point. Let’s go.

  I glance around the room while Smythe heads to the door. Fans stand in line for autographs, music blares, and beer flows like the set of Animal House. Jackie tugs on Donny’s shirt, pen in her hand, but his gaze focuses on me and heat rushes down my spine. I give him a little finger wave and mouth the words, Gotta go. He takes a step forward as if to stop me, but Jackie grabs his arm, stepping into his path. A flash of anger dances through his dark irises before he drops his attention to her pen and paper, a smile curving his lips.

  One last thing to do before following Smythe. Let my twin know where I’m going.

  T, we have to check something out.

  His head snaps up from where he watches Donny scrawl his autograph on Jackie’s paper. Can’t you ever just have a night off?

  Apparently not. I shrug. We’ll be back. Don’t leave without us.

  As if he could. I’m driving.

  Smythe holds the door open for me, and I slip into the relative quietness of the hallway. Not a soul around—at least not one I can see—but the rumbling bass of the party’s stereo beats in the background.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Smythe gestures to the left as he quicksteps that direction. “The guards went through this exit door.” He shoves the bar on the door, and lucky for us, no alarms sound.

  We step into the humid, early fall evening. The scent of rain rides the breeze, overpowered by the odor of trash and death. We stand in an enclosed alley-like area with an opened steel gate at the end. A large, green Dumpster sits to our left against a stretch of concrete wall, a bright LED light shining on the thing as if to make it easier to find in the dark. Or deter thieves from stealing it. A huddle of security and janitorial staff cluster around the Dumpster. Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.

  As the door clicks closed behind us, a couple of the closest security guards turn their attention our way.

  “Hey, hey…” One of them walks toward us, palms out in the classic stop-right-there pose. “You can’t be here. You need to—”

  Smythe sets his laptop backpack on the ground by the door and pulls out what looks like a wallet. He flashes his fake badge, spelling the guard into thinking we are the local law enforcement. Mage power to the rescue. “FBI. Agent Smythe and Consultant Crawford. What happened?”

  The guard’s eyes lose focus for a second as the spell affects him. He waves us toward the scene, speaking to the others, who stare at us with curiosity. “They’re with the FBI. Were at the game, heard about the crime.”

  Did Smythe implant that last idea? Or was that pure assumption on the guard’s part?

  I’ll neve
r tell. Smythe offers me a half-smile before slipping on his all-business face.

  Wait a minute. Did he just read my mind? Before I can question him, he glances past the guard, his next words both a warning and a command. Look smart.

  As if I won’t. We’ve been through same type of scene numerous times. Smart is my middle name.

  Smart as in sharp. Not as in smartass.

  I shake my head at him before straightening my shoulders. And slapping a hand over my mouth and nose. Yuck. Hours-old death in humid Texas weather makes for a smelly situation. At least I’m not the only one with their hand, or handkerchief, over their mouths.

  “What happened?” Smythe meets the gaze of each guard and the hyperventilating janitorial women who clearly found the body.

  One of the women points to where the body lies in front of the Dumpster, flat on her back, hands resting in classic death pose on her bloody stabbed chest, a red rose clasped in her fingers. Her open eyes stare into the night, her mouth curled into a grimace of pain and death. Her clothes look like she came from a club: tight, short, and low-cut, with spiky heels. At one time, I would’ve been jealous of her hot-to-trot figure.

  Now all I notice is the pain and terror stamped on her face and the unfurling anger deep in my core. Fucking murderers. I might be a fancy-assed demon huntress, but I destroy minions, not human killers. Lucky for me, I can tell which type of kill this scene belongs to with little effort.

  Closing my eyes, I start to take a deep calming breath, think better of it, and focus on activating my minion sensors. Tapping into the power of the entity lying along my nerves, I open my eyes to a tactical grid display of reds and oranges, a clear indication of a minion’s presence at the scene.

  Looks like I’ll get my wish to annihilate the fucking bastard who killed this poor woman.

  Minion, I tell Smythe. Not that he needs the verbal—or should I say telepathic—heads-up. Mages can see minion trails just fine without a Justitian’s help. Which makes me wonder why they need Justitians.

  A topic for a different time.

  “Brought the trash out and found this—” This hitches in the janitor’s throat, cutting off the rest of her sentence, and she swallows as she waves at the body.

  “What time was that?” Smythe asks.

  The woman looks at her co-worker before answering. “Ten, fifteen minutes ago?”

  “Did you come out earlier?”

  Both women shake their heads, but only one answers. “No, señor. Only bring out trash after the game.”

  The sirens grow closer, an ear-piercing wail of sorrow. Flashing lights strobe across the walls of the stadium as the cops and an ambulance pull to a stop by the steel doors, the wail cutting off with an electronic blip. Smythe steps out of the headlights’ glare.

  Someone behind me draws in a sharp intake of air. Behind me?

  I turn, the minion-sensors streaming red and orange minion trails like headlights in time-lapse photography. Donny Football stands a few feet behind me, staring at the dead woman, eyes wide, mouth open. The streams of minion trails coalesce around his head, across his shoulders, a lover’s caress of evil.

  Now it’s my turn to gasp and blink in surprise. If he’s a minion, why didn’t my bracelet turn into a sword when we first met at the party? But as soon as I blink, the colors vanish, leaving Donny bathed in hues of blues and reds from the flashing strobe lights of the emergency vehicles.

  Must’ve been a trick of the strobe lights. Clearly Donny is not a minion. My justitia remains in bracelet form. A puzzled bracelet, but that emotion could be from my second of shock. No sword, no minion, I always say.

  Good thing too. Thinking of Donny as a minion sends seeds of panic pumping through my system. Killing the football star would put me on everyone’s hit list.

  “I came to find you,” Donny says. “What’s going on?”

  He came to find me? Me? Before I think too much into that phrasing, I show him what he wants, moving aside so he has a clear view.

  He takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving the body. “Jenny?”

  Jenny? He knows the dead woman?

  Everyone stares at Donny like they’ve never seen the wide receiver off the field. Smythe recovers first, striding to him, eyes narrowed.

  “Jenny, you say? How do you know her?”

  “What, man? Like you’re the cops?”

  “Wrong department.” Smythe flashes his badge. Open, close, and Donny believes we’re an FBI agent and consultant. “Now. How do you know her?”

  Donny swallows and runs a hand across his head. His gaze bounces from Jenny to the approaching emergency responders to Smythe. “Met her the other night at the club.”

  “Which one?”

  “Club Monster.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Don’t know.” Donny shrugs. “Didn’t get that far.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “She stayed at the club. Didn’t leave with me.”

  “Did you meet with her outside of the club?”

  “No, man. I don’t take home women. Ruins my rep, ya know?”

  Uh-huh. Right. Leaves the women at the club. Liar.

  “I’m sorry.” Bracing myself for emotional impact, I touch his arm as if to offer condolences.

  He turns toward me, but his expression isn’t what hits me. Moans, groans, and the rhythmic slapping of half-naked bodies slams into my mind, along with a graphic description of what Jenny feels like from the inside. Bleh, I could’ve done without that little glimpse of bathroom sex in a club.

  Why take a woman home when he could bang her and leave her with no repercussions?

  I’m surprised he remembered her name. Most men wouldn’t.

  I drop my arm while plastering a sympathetic expression on my face.

  Smythe tenses like a lion ready to strike. Then he gives a little shudder and nods. “So you left her at the club and haven’t seen her since?”

  “Yeah, man. And before you ask, she was alive when I left. Very much alive.”

  “Did she say where she was going afterward?”

  “Nah. Nothing like that. We didn’t talk like that.”

  Why talk when “fuck me” and “bathroom” are uttered in the same sentence?

  I’ve done a lot of things in my life better left unsaid, but bathroom sex in a club was not one of them.

  “I see,” Smythe says, stealing my line. His brain is blissfully ignorant of what Jenny feels like on the inside and the sound she makes when she peaks. Unlike mine.

  I shake my head, as if that will disperse the feeling. Whoever thinks being an empath is fun should try randomly touching people’s arms. That’ll cure ’em.

  Squeaky wheels and heavy footsteps draw closer as the emergency responders swarm the scene. Chatter fills the air, a dull hum of jaded remorse. See enough bodies and one stops empathizing with the dead as a coping mechanism.

  Smythe rests his hand against Donny’s shoulder, almost as if he wants to play empath and read the football star’s emotions. Which is a little hard to do without touching skin-to-skin.

  “Give your statement to the cops.” He points to the nearest blue-suit, gesturing the cop to Donny. Then he steps back, giving me a little tug. Unlike Donny, his touch elicits no empathic reading.

  No complaints about that. When we first started working together his touch sent zingers of do-me-now heat straight to my core. For whatever reason, those rarely happen nowadays. Good thing too. The mage turns me on without the addition of my touch-and-feel problem. Which makes keeping my rule of “Thou shalt not screw thy boss” difficult.

  Once the cops invade our space, Smythe tugs me backward until we run into the stadium door. Escape mage-style.

  “What? Don’t want to meet the cops?”

  “Why mingle when I can look up the case online?” He picks up his laptop backpack from where he laid it next to the door.

  Right. The spell-protected laptop. No hacker’s getting through that thin
g.

  “We aren’t tracking the minion?” Minion trails only last about a day before dissipating into the air. Smythe usually insists upon immediate tracking.

  “We’ll have to come back tomorrow when it’s not so crowded.”

  “But won’t that be too late?”

  “For what?” He gestures toward Jenny. “She’s already dead.”

  “You usually like to get a head start.”

  “There’s a time for everything, and right now is not it. Come on, let’s go.”

  Fine by me. It’s late. I’m tired, and despite wanting to catch Jenny’s killer, I’d rather catch a nighttime of zzz’s.

  Smythe pulls open the door and we step into the cool air of the hallway. Nothing screams North Texas like over-air-conditioned buildings.

  “Where did you go?”

  The door hasn’t even shut behind us when T steps into my space. Like he couldn’t pop into my head and see for himself. Maybe barriers to keep Smythe out of my head and my secrets work on my twin.

  Nah. After thirty-two years, I know what he’s up to. Concern works better up close and personal.

  “Minion kill. Was Donny Merryweather’s flavor du jour.” I point at the door.

  T’s jaw tenses. He doesn’t like my new demon-killing gig. On the plus side, he now likes my mentor.

  T narrows his eyes at Smythe. “She shouldn’t be running around looking at dead people when we’re at a game.”

  Okay. Make that still learning to like my mentor. The word “like” being used loosely and only when Smythe toes T’s treat-my-sister-right line.

  Dead bodies and minion kills lie on the other side of that divide.

  Smythe stares at T until my twin blinks. Which has to be the first time in T’s adult life he’s backed down.

  “Okay, okay, guys.” No sense in letting them think playing the stare-and-glare game wins friends and influences people. “I’m the newest demon huntress—”

  “Justitian,” Smythe mutters.

  “—and nothing’s going to stop me from doing my job. I take down minions, and I’m damn good at it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “I know.” I touch T’s arm and tension leaks from him, a slow drip of anger replaced by relaxation. A mutual feeling for both of us, a peace only found from the touch of the other.