Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Read online

  T steps away from the counter, a knife balanced in his palm. “Why you got on that getup?”

  “We have to go out, but we’ll be back.”

  “Dinner’ll be ready in an hour or so.”

  “Okay.” So far, the house was intact, and the kitchen remained smoke free. Perhaps I could be polite and sample the Double-D Wonder’s cooking. It wouldn’t kill me.

  Being polite, that is. I’m not so sure about the meal.

  A metallic click sounds from behind me, followed by a heavy thud of shoes. Smythe’s palm rests against my shoulder.

  “We’ll be back.” He sounds ominous. As if it’s a threat instead of a promise.

  T narrows his eyes, points the knife at Smythe. “One hour.” The ‘or else’ goes without saying.

  Smythe lifts his chin to Jackie, and T points at something on the counter. “Hey, babe, what’s that?” Jackie turns her back to us.

  Smythe opens a portal while she’s not looking.

  Warm air billows out of the portal, luring me to believe the in-between is as comfy as a beach, but I know better than to fall for the deception. Smythe grabs my hand and yanks me into the ice-cold, color-swirling depths. Breath freezes in my lungs, locked there by the chill of the portal.

  Good thing I’m hot going into the thing. Travel by portal might be the fastest way to get around, but the chill prohibits me from liking it. Beads of sweat freeze around my hairline like miniature hailstones by the time the portal spits us out in a dark corner of a parking garage.

  The splash of heat melts the ice, leaving me with a damp forehead and nape. I run the back of my hand across my forehead as I stride to catch Smythe who is already halfway to the staircase.

  “Hey!” My voice echoes off parked cars, “You know my legs aren’t as long as yours, right?”

  Smythe pauses, shoulders raising, lowering. He turns, his gaze running over my legs. “I’m not walking that fast.”

  “The portal froze me. Took awhile to be able to move.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not that cold.” When I draw even with him, he starts down the stairs. “We’ll see what the good professor knows about his grad student. Let me do the talking.”

  “You do realize I’m somewhat intelligent, don’t you?”

  “You do realize there’s a difference between being intelligent and knowing how to conduct an investigation, don’t you?” A hint of a grin turns his lips.

  “Okay, so I’m a newbie. That doesn’t mean I’m going to say something stupid.”

  He raises a brow as an answer. I’m not mad at Smythe for his lack of confidence in my investigative interviewer role, but the devil in me likes teasing him.

  A bit too much, judging from his tense jaw.

  Or maybe that’s his normal expression before conducting an interview.

  Smythe shoves open the door leading into the med school. A blast of cold air greets us as we walk into a white linoleum-covered hallway. Goosebumps prickle my skin, and I rub my hands up and down my arms as we stride down the hall. A few moments later, we arrive at the crime scene.

  The bodies are gone as are most of the bystanders, but CSI still crawls around the hallway like fleas on a dog. Smythe walks up to the same cop he spoke with earlier.

  “You’re back.” The cop narrows his eyes as he takes in my change of clothes.

  “Yep. We need to talk to Dr. Sheevers. Do you know where his office is?”

  “Already have personnel on it.”

  “Good. Where’s his office?”

  Prickles cross my skin as Smythe works a spell on the cop. The cop’s brows relax, his eyes giving a glimpse into a calm mind.

  “Up a floor, almost directly above us.” One finger points upward.

  “Thanks, man.” Smythe claps him on the shoulder before grabbing my arm and walking to the nearest staircase.

  Guess he’s never heard of an elevator.

  “Do you always cast spells on cops?” I whisper once we hit the stairs.

  “Only when they get too curious.”

  “Remind me not to get too curious around you.”

  “It doesn’t apply to you. You aren’t a cop.” He shoots me a half-grin that triggers an unwanted set of fantasy-producing tingles.

  Geez Louise.

  I snap barriers around that errant reaction before the man reads my mind. No sense adding fuel to his overconfident self.

  He pushes open the door to the hall and the first thing I see is a couple of cops spilling out of a doorway. Bingo. Office found.

  Smythe walks up to the cops and flashes his fake badge. “Special Agent Smythe and my consultant. If you’re finished interviewing Dr. Sheevers, we have a few questions to ask.”

  The cops look at him. One starts to speak, but his eyes glaze over as prickles cross my skin. Yep, no wonder Smythe wanted me to remain quiet. My talents don’t include spelling cops into submission.

  Although maybe I should learn. Imagine all the speeding tickets I could get out of.

  “Yeah, we were just finishing up. Come on in.”

  The cop steps to the side, allowing Smythe and me to crowd into an office filled to overflowing with African artwork, a thick Persian rug probably worth more money than I make in a year, and the requisite bookshelves stuffed with paper journals and leather-bound books. Oo-la-la. Standing room only for the cops and us.

  The same man from Blake’s funeral leans against a fancy wooden desk stacked with papers, gaze bouncing between Smythe and the cops, a thin sheen of sweat plastered across his brow. His eyes widen as he sees me. One hand runs through his graying hair, causing it to stick out like he stuck his finger in an electrical outlet.

  “Why are you here?” He takes a step toward us, thinks better of it, and returns to his leaning position.

  “I’m a consultant.”

  One of the cops looks at me as if noticing me for the first time. Smythe snaps his fingers, a quiet sound against his leg, and the man’s attention once again focuses on the professor.

  “Dr. Sheevers,” Smythe speaks before the professor can comment on my consultant status. “Please tell us about your grad student, Mason. We understand he worked in your lab.”

  Dr. Sheevers runs both hands through his hair, not improving his crazy professor look. “I already told them, he was a good student, helpful to my work, but I didn’t know anything else about his life. We’re busy in the lab.”

  Yeah, and I’m busy in the ER but still manage to learn some things about each of my co-workers. Maybe it’s different for a lab full of men.

  “What’re you working on?” Smythe asks.

  The professor drops his hands and spins around. “I can’t discuss it. It’s government work. Classified. If you want to know, you’ll need a warrant.”

  Smythe stiffens, as do the cops. Who needs a warrant when they have an empath. One touch and it’s all mine. Bwahahaha.

  Or, instead of chortling evilly while touching the distraught prof, we can march to the nearest computer terminal and look up his specialty.

  Technology to the rescue.

  “You do realize we don’t need a warrant to know what your specialty is, right?” a cop asks.

  “Look,” Dr. Sheevers raises his hand halfway to his head, then drops it, gripping the desk until his fingers blanch. “I’m really sorry he died, but I have work to do. Unless you plan on arresting me, I need to get to my lab. It’s a timed project and time is almost up.”

  “Don’t go far,” the other cop warns. “We might have more questions for you.”

  “Fine, fine. I won’t leave town. I need to get to my lab.” He shoves off his desk, barreling toward the door like an alcoholic toward whiskey, fast, and without a thought to anyone else.

  Smythe steps out of his way, but I stick my hand out, stopping the man in his distraught tracks.

  “Thank you for letting us talk to you.” Steeling myself for his thoughts, I wait for him to grasp my hand.

  After a brief second as he stares at my palm li
ke he’s never seen one before, he grips my hand, giving a quick squeeze. This time I don’t see his impending death. Beakers and powder-filled vials along with other lab supplies slam into my mind, chased by panic and a case of nerves strong enough to race my heart.

  His gaze never meets mine as he releases my hand and scurries down the hall, the fast click of his loafers a testament to his rush. Wonder what kind of timed lab project gave that kind of reading? At least my “gift” worked correctly. No visions of the future this time.

  A different clip of heavy shoes on linoleum snaps my attention in the opposite direction. Smythe strides away from the cops, his quick departure generating puzzled looks as he leaves without a word. I shoot the two detectives an apologetic smile and a shrug before speed-walking after my mentor.

  He turns down a hallway and stops so fast I run into him.

  “Oomph. What the hell? You should’ve said something to them before buzzing out of there.”

  He turns halfway through my speech, crossing his arms in his classic about to ask a question stance. And he fails to disappoint. “What did you see?”

  “Not up to reading my mind?”

  “You appear to have learned a lesson.”

  Score! Nice to know I can finally form a mental barrier strong enough to keep out a nosy mage. I offer him a half-smile coupled with a wink. “I must’ve had a good teacher.”

  “It’s a fluke.” He grins, the expression creating an unwanted flutter in my chest. “What did you see?”

  “His lab. He was telling the truth about being upset and needing to get to it.”

  “Why?”

  “No clue. Laptop time.”

  He pokes his head around the corner, looking back the way we came. “Looks clear. The cops are gone. Let’s check out his office.”

  “Why, Smythe. That’s illegal without a warrant.”

  “We’re not cops.”

  Several strides later, he shuts the door to Dr. Sheevers’ office behind us. Good thing we’re not the police. I’m pretty sure being in this office is against several rules.

  Although it’s not really breaking and entering if the door was already open.

  I hope.

  The only light in the room comes from the bright florescent bulbs crossing the ceiling. Smythe ruffles through papers pitched across the desk. A sign of a disorganized mind or too busy to straighten out the mess?

  I walk around so I stand beside Smythe. A computer monitor rests in the middle of the desk, picture frames huddle on one side while a stack of professional journals keep its other side warm. Since Smythe’s fingers are dancing a jig across the keyboard, I check out the pictures.

  One of them is of Dr. Sheevers standing on a hiking trail in front of a brownish-pink hill which pokes above a straggly ring of trees. A site I recognize. Enchanted Rock outside of Fredericksburg, Texas. A hiker and collector of art. Multi-tasking.

  The other picture is older, a wedding shot of a much younger doctor and his wife. The happy couple smiles for the camera, arms intertwined to share champagne. How sweet. A vague tension strokes deep inside. At one time, I wanted that harmony. Back when I played with dolls. Before my parents’ dysfunctional marriage ravaged my reality. Before I realized being an empath, a freak of nature, eradicated any chance of a happily ever after fairytale.

  “Did you find something?” Smythe’s voice snaps my attention away from memory lane to the present.

  “Pictures. You?”

  Smythe shakes his head as he shuts down the computer. “Can’t get through the password.”

  Seriously? Mister I-Can-Hack-Anything stuck on a password? Day-um. “Does that happen often?”

  “Never. I suppose he’d notice if I took the hard-drive.”

  I snort a laugh at the serious look on his face. “Probably.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Sorry.” I glance toward the door. “We should leave before he returns.”

  “We have time. Did you see the way he tore out of here?” But he stands and shoves the chair under the desk. “I want to know what he’s hiding.”

  “Maybe he’s not hiding anything. Maybe he really had an important lab project to finish.”

  “Do you believe what you’re saying?”

  I recalled the professor brushing off the officers’ questions, hauling ass out of his office, remembered the weak grip of his hand as he paused to shake mine. Fear and panic were intertwined in his thoughts. Sure he was thinking of his lab, of beakers and potions, and whatever else goes on in a working laboratory, but was he really thinking of his experiment?

  I look at Smythe, shake my head. “Not in the least.”

  “So what’s he hiding?”

  “No idea. Why don’t we go home, and you can Google him or whatever it is you do.”

  “As you wish.” He mutters words under his breath, hand outstretched to a corner of the office. A portal forms and he grabs my arm as we step into its depths. “Maybe Jackie can cook.”

  Crap. I forgot all about her kitchen experiment. Do I even have a house left?

  Chapter Five

  “Thanks for dinner, Jackie. It was good.” Amazingly so, as a matter of fact. And the house remained standing, no fire in sight.

  Who would’ve guessed?

  Maybe there’s more to Jackie than her double-D’s.

  Nah. No sense in getting overly optimistic.

  Jackie smiles and pats T’s arm. “I had some help.”

  T gives her a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. Gah. I shove back my chair and grab my plate. Watching the lovebirds smooch at the table makes me want to puke.

  Juvenile, yes. But we can’t help the way we feel.

  Smythe grabs his plate, sticks it in the sink, and joins me in the kitchen exodus. I should be polite and offer to clean the dishes but that would require me to watch the lovefest.

  Not happening. Not tonight.

  Smythe pops open his laptop and pulls up a browser before his butt hits the couch cushion. Fingers tap a mad race across the keyboard. He squints at a link then taps enter. I lean over the back of the couch, reading text over his shoulder.

  The medical school’s webpage offers a glimpse into Dr. Dan Sheevers’ work. Professor of Microbiology and Immunology. No mention of experiments or his specialty.

  “That’s it? You’re better than that, Smythe.”

  His brows furrow a question as he points at the screen. “It mentions his home address.”

  “That’s helpful for a pissed off, vengeful student, but not so much with us. I guess it doesn’t really matter what he works on. We need to focus on the grad student and try to figure out why the demon targeted him.”

  “True. But, like how you got that bracelet, it’s a missing thread. Those bother me.”

  “I told you.” I poke his shoulder with my finger. “Will thinks he slipped it into my pocket after he’d been shot.”

  “And did he?”

  “That’s not the way I remember it."

  “Yeah. As I thought. We need more research on that. Speaking of research.” His fingers smack the keys, changing the screen view. “I looked into your genealogy since we still don’t know why you can wear the justitia when you aren’t listed in our Justitian bloodline records.” He points at the screen. “Look what I found on your mom. She was adopted.”

  “Gee, I never knew.” I have one memory of my grandmother, and it wasn’t warm cookies and hugs. No wonder Mom drank herself to death. Maybe if she’d known her birth mother things would have been different.

  As far as I know, she never tried looking.

  His glare frosts my skin. “As I was saying. She was adopted, and there is no record of her birth mother.”

  “Because they hid those types of things back then.”

  He rolls right over my reasoning as if my lips never opened. “We didn’t realize anyone was left of your justitia’s ancestral line after its last Justitian died during World War II. That’s why we held the bracelet at the Agency.” />
  “I remember you saying that.” Genealogy never interested me. Who wants to discover your entire family tree was full of alcoholics and wife-beaters? Even knowing Mom was adopted failed to cause me excitement over the prospect of knowing my ancestors.

  Genealogy might not intrigue me, but my justitia does. Will knew next to nothing about the bracelet. Of course, interviewing him right after he came out of a coma might not have helped.

  “You aren’t excited.” Smythe pats the sofa next to him, and I talk while walking around to sit.

  “Yippee. Tell me more about why my bracelet was taken in by the Agency.”

  “I already did.”

  “Give me a refresher. I’ve slept since then.”

  Smythe shakes his head and sighs. “Your line died out. Or we thought it did. Clearly we were wrong, since you can wear the justitia. It would help to learn more about your mother’s past.”

  “If you know my line died, then why don’t you know who was my direct relative?”

  His lips flatten. “Apparently records were not kept as well as they should be. We don’t know which Justitian gave birth to your ancestor or even when. Your mother was adopted, but she was born after we recorded your line died out.”

  “So what you’re saying is I could be a direct descendant of a number of Justitians?”

  A grin twists his lips. “Technically you can only be descended from one.”

  “Duh, Smythe. Duh. I know that.” I shake my head.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” His eyes twinkle as he continues his explanation. “Each bracelet can only be worn by the descendants of the original wearer. You can be a Justitian, but you can only wear the justitia of your line. Therefore, we know which line you came from, but our records show it no longer exists.”

  “And you think Mom is the key to knowing?”

  “I hope.”

  What I really want to know is why the Agency has no record of my direct line. If they take such good records, then what happened to my history? Clearly Smythe didn’t know, so asking was out of the question. Looks like a discovery to save for another day. On to more answerable questions.

  “Okay, how did Will get it? He said his father had it and told his mother to keep it safe. I’m assuming that meant if anything happened to him. How did his dad get it?”