Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 5

  “I have a theory. But it needs some more work. I haven’t found Will’s birth certificate.”

  Birth certificate? “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “This is all theory, mind you.”

  I nod. Theory? Right. In Smythe’s world, theory equals fact.

  “I suspect his father worked at the Agency and stole the bracelet. There’s no other explanation for how it disappeared. The average Joe can’t get through the doors, and even if he managed, the vault is high security. Magical security. No getting through that without the code.”

  “Magical security?” Never heard of that one.

  “You know. Spells.” He grins, waggles his fingers.

  “Hey! We’re going outside to have a beer. In case you need us.” T’s voice snaps me out the conversation, a reminder my brother and Jackie are still hanging out in the house, overhearing our conversation.

  “Thanks.” I give him a little finger wave. “Have fun. And thanks again for dinner. It was good.” The fact Jackie knows how to operate a stove and oven is a little shocking, but I decide against saying that thought. T already knows I think Jackie’s a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.

  After shooting Smythe a glare, T walks out the back door with Jackie, who carries a six-pack. Specifically the one I bought to relax at the end of the evening. After the day I had, I deserve a couple of bottles.

  Looks like my needs were going unfulfilled.

  I rise to go reclaim my beer, but Smythe grabs my wrist, fingers clasping over the silver links of my bracelet, and the beer craving vanishes.

  Wish that little trick could be pocketed.

  “Ever thought of going to AA?”

  “I don’t have a problem.” Liar, liar.

  Yeah, right appears on his face as if stroked by a pen. I don’t need to read his mind to know he’s all over my lie.

  Time for a topic change, otherwise known as the key to distraction.

  “So, my bracelet was in a magically secure vault when it vanished?”

  Smythe narrows his eyes. Blinks twice for good measure and sighs. Distraction complete. “Yep. The why it vanished is a mystery. But I believe Will’s father was the one who took it. Why else warn his wife—”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “As I was saying,” he nails me with a frosty glare, “why else warn his girlfriend to keep the bracelet safe.”

  “She was killed by a minion searching for the bracelet.” The same minion who shot Will and later that day tried to kill me. Good thing my justitia turned into a sword and stabbed the sucker. “Why wouldn’t she just give the minion the bracelet? Why keep the secret?”

  A thought slams into my mind. “Oh, I have it. Maybe she was a mage too. Or a Justitian in training. Or a sister of a Justitian. Because if someone is trying to kill you over a bracelet, wouldn’t you just tell ’em where the thing was in an effort to save your life?”

  He shrugs. “Good theory. But it still doesn’t explain how the justitia ended up in your pocket.”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. I too have my suspicions about the how. I think the bracelet answers when you make a plea three times. Since I’ve used that ability to escape Smythe—albeit unknowingly, and before he became my mentor—I’m hesitant to tell him.

  Who knows when that ability might come in handy?

  As the song says, know when to hold ’em. Or redirect ’em.

  “Maybe Will’s recollection of putting it in my pocket is correct. That’s not how I remember it, but seeing him shot freaked me out. I could’ve forgotten something.”

  He raises a brow. I don’t need to read his thoughts to know my story makes it onto his not-fucking-likely list. So much for the redirection.

  “We’ve been over this.”

  I wave a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “We’re working on the assumption Will’s father is the culprit. Any thoughts as to why he took it?”

  “To sell it? To hide it? Why would you steal a justitia?”

  “I wouldn’t. It doesn’t kill demons without a woman of a certain lineage to wear it. Why would I want it?”

  Good point. “Money makes the world go round.”

  “Okay. Let’s say he wanted to make a profit. Why give it to his girlfriend and tell her to keep it safe?”

  “No clue. Do you see detective tattooed on my forehead?” I point to my head.

  He gives me a get-real stare. “Think, Gin. You have a brain.”

  “So do you. Why do I have to come up with the answer?”

  “I need another viewpoint.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “And I’ve had a crappy day. And I work a long shift tomorrow. More discoveries aren’t looking promising right now.” The only thing looking promising is me letting T keep my six-pack. Who knew a spell could nix my cravings?

  Smythe taps one finger in an impatient rhythm against the laptop. “I’m sorry about Blake. But we need to focus on solving this.”

  “Which this? My ancestors? My missing and suddenly found justitia? Or why the hell a demon appeared at the med school and made a failed attempt at creating a minion?”

  “Yes. And it wasn’t a failed attempt. It made a minion. It just chose its minion poorly.”

  “Whatever. That’s the real mystery.”

  “You are, too.”

  Just what I wanted to hear. After all the effort I’ve been spending on distraction and redirection, the least he could do was stop thinking of me as a mystery. Some things should be left to rest.

  “Mysterious? Me? I’m an open book.” Liar, liar.

  His eyes narrow, his mouth opening as if to speak, until another idea crosses his mind, strong enough to morph his expression into excitement.

  Oh, great. Something tells me I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. And it gives me no pleasure to realize I’m right.

  “Why don’t we go talk to Will?”

  “I told you, he doesn’t know where his father got the bracelet.”

  “I can get him to remember.”

  “I’m sure you can, but he just got out of the hospital yesterday and needs his rest. It’s a medical miracle he’s even alive, let alone out so soon.” After being shot in the abdomen a week and a half ago, then falling into a coma, then recovering quicker than anybody believed possible—hell, even his treating doctors thought him a goner—Will deserves a little rest. And time to grieve.

  “That medical miracle as you call it is a red flag for him being a mage.”

  Will? A mage? “Why do you think that?”

  “First off, if my theory is correct about his father being a mage, it’s probable Will is one too, since the ability runs in families. Secondly, mages heal as fast as Justitians, even from potentially fatal wounds. Remember?”

  Not really. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt. “Oh, right. As fast as Justitians, eh?” He thinks Will’s a mage?

  “I see we need to review some lessons.”

  I fail to stop the eye roll. “If mages heal so fast, why did you need to rest after you rescued me from Zagan’s?”

  “I burned through too much magic. That's completely different than tissue damage and requires a longer time to heal.”

  The intricacies of being a mage. “And here I thought Will’s quick healing was a miracle.”

  Smythe shrugs. “Call it what you like. Magic. Miracle. Mage. If he is a mage, he should learn how to harness his powers. I can help him with that.” He sets the laptop on the coffee table and stands. “Come on. At least we can solve one mystery.”

  I want to protest, if only for the well-being of the shot, yet healing faster than normal, patient. But discovering the secret of my justitia fills me with excitement. While giving me glimpses into its past, the damn thing refuses to show me how Will came to have it.

  A little bit of detective work never hurt anyone. And Will might be happy to have visitors.

  Especially if they bring him something to eat.

  “Let me make a pl
ate of leftovers.”

  One plate, two minutes, and a chilly portal later, we appear on the side of Will’s humongous home. If only I hadn’t been the high school freak when we first met, this might all have been mine.

  Yeah, right. Not even in my dreams. By the time we met again in the ER, Will wore a wedding ring, and I have higher standards than to rest my boots under a married man’s bed.

  Unfortunately for him, his wife was killed the same day he was shot. When the minion failed to get the justitia from Will, it came to this house and killed Will’s wife.

  And now we come with a plate full of food, as if that will comfort a grieving husband and soften the questions we need to ask.

  Steam wafts off the now-cold plate, the condensation of water droplets covering the plastic wrap. I’m not the only thing freezing from the portal. At least the August air chases away the chill bumps covering my limbs.

  Smythe leads me to the front door and rings the doorbell. A few seconds later the door swings open. A private nurse wearing scrubs and sneakers looks us over like we’re trying to convert her to our religion.

  “May I help you?” Her pinched tone of voice indicates her lack of enthusiasm at the prospect.

  Sticking on a fake smile, I hold out the plate. “We’re bringing Will dinner. May we come in?”

  “Let me take that. He’s resting.”

  Mid-reach, Smythe clears his throat, snapping her attention to him. Her arm drops, eyes losing focus.

  “Are you sure we can’t come in and speak with him?”

  She blinks at his question, then nods, a vapid smile turning her lips.

  Nifty trick he has there. As long as it’s not me he’s spelling into doing his bidding.

  “Come on in. He’s in the living room.” She steps back, gesturing toward a room the size of my house.

  Open wooden beams support a two-storied roof. Stone walls and a slate floor lend a coolness to the room not even the outside temperature can obliterate. I’m so busy ogling the display of money I almost miss Will sitting in a recliner, watching what has to be a seventy-inch flat screen TV.

  Will raises his brows as we walk into the room, obviously confused as to why his nurse let us in.

  Always nice to know I’m wanted. I plaster a smile on my face and offer him Jackie’s leftover dinner. “We brought you something. Thought you might want a home-cooked meal.”

  “Thanks.” He points the remote at the TV, lowering the volume. When he looks at me, his eyes widen.

  At the same time, a brush of air strokes the back of my neck, raising prickles along my skin. Smythe. No one else causes that otherworldly sensation coupled with an annoying vision of sex-tangled sheets.

  “Will, meet Smythe. Smythe, this is Dr. Wunderliech.”

  Smythe nods. After a two-beat pause, Will returns the gesture, eyes narrowed on my mentor as if he can see into his soul.

  The nurse grabs the plate out of my hands, no doubt ensorcelled to leave us alone. Her tennis shoes make soft squelching noises as she heads toward the kitchen.

  Will waves at a modern sofa that reminds me of a medieval torture device, blood red and curved. “Have a seat.” Despite the words and gesture, his tone indicates he’d rather us exit stage left instead of getting comfortable, if comfort is even possible on that couch.

  Normally I’d pick up on the silent cues and leave, not needing empathic abilities to know when I’m not wanted. But I’m outvoted by my mentor who perches on the edge of the couch like it might give him a disease.

  Oh, well. I pull out the rudeness card and sit beside Smythe, grin plastered on my face, an uncomfortable tension holding my spine straight.

  With any luck, Will won’t notice that my smile covers a dose of embarrassment.

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions about Gin’s bracelet.” Smythe touches my wrist, eliciting an unwanted jolt of over-active hormones.

  Will’s eyes widen as he licks his lips. “Like I told Gin, I don’t know much.”

  Smythe catches Will’s gaze.

  “Why do you want…?” Will’s words fade away as his mouth slackens, eyes glaze. But only for a couple of seconds. Smythe doesn’t even have time to ask a question before Will shakes his head, fingers rubbing his brow as he closes his eyes.

  Anger flashes across his face as he raises his gaze, nailing Smythe with a glare that frosts my skin like a portal. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re one of those people my dad warned me about. Get out.” He points to the door. “Get out now.”

  I’m halfway up, apologetic grin turning my lips, when a strong hand clamps my wrist, tugging me back down.

  “Not bad.” Smythe nods in time to his words. “With some training, you’ll make a good mage.”

  Will blinks, arm stretched out, finger pointing at the door. “I said…” he pauses, brow scrunched, “…what do you mean mage?”

  “I assume your father worked for the Agency. An organization that is comprised of mages who guard the Justitians, the women who wear bracelets like Gin’s. Like the bracelet you gave her. Mage abilities run in families. Judging by your reaction to my test a minute ago, you possess those abilities. That’s why we’re here.”

  Only part of why we’re here, but hey, little white lies never hurt.

  Will’s arm drops, the angry expression giving way to curiosity.

  Embarrassment still rages in my soul. But like Will, curiosity wins out. What he has to say involves me. And my justitia.

  Who knows? I might learn how Will’s father got the bracelet. Peppering the recovering doctor with questions makes Smythe happy and gives me a sense of accomplishment. It’s a twofer, a win-win for all involved. I hope.

  “Then why mess around in my head?”

  “As a test. To make sure you were what I hoped. It’s not often a mage doesn’t realize their powers. Tell me how you knew I was in there.”

  “Dad trained me to recognize if someone was messing with my mind. But that was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah.” Will stares at his balled fist for several seconds. “So you came to test me? Or to ask questions about my bracelet?”

  “Both. Keep in mind that’s not your bracelet.”

  Will’s eyes flash. “It was Dad’s.”

  “How did he get it?”

  “I don’t know, okay? It was his. He gave it to Mom, and she gave it to me—” His voice cuts out as if he meant to say more. His face whitens. His gaze drops. Neither of us prompts him to continue as we both know what happened next. His mother gave him the bracelet right before she died, the night he hid under his bed, listening to a minion beat his mother to death, fearing the man would come after him next.

  I want to comfort him, to soothe away the grief enveloping him even after all these years. But I don’t. I already glimpsed into his mind the day he was shot and the thought of another jump into his past sends a shiver across my limbs. My fingers clasp each other as if to keep his memories at bay.

  “And the bracelet helped you, didn’t it?” Smythe’s calm tone soothes the grief lines zigzagging across Will’s brow.

  “I guess. The man never saw me. Looked right at me and passed by.” Will shudders, arms crossing in an unconscious gesture of protection.

  “Why did you give it to Gin?”

  “Like I told her, I don’t remember much of that day.”

  “May I look and see?”

  Will’s arms drop, eyes narrowing on my mentor like he’s a misbehaving child. “More mind stuff?”

  “Perhaps I can unlock your memories of that day.”

  “And why would I want you to? What would that help? I had the bracelet that morning and obviously gave it to Gin. Why do the in-between parts matter?”

  Smythe’s fingers tighten against my wrist, the only indication he dislikes Will’s answer. Did he really expect Will to jump on the invade-my-mind bandwagon? Especially after the good doc tried to make us leave?

  “You carrie
d it to work?”

  “Yeah. I usually wore it. As I said, I don’t remember much of that day, but I do remember wanting Gin to have it for some reason.” He glances at the wall, back to Smythe, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Almost more than I wanted to live. Like an obsession, this little voice inside telling me to give it to Gin.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.” When I visited him in the hospital, he only said he’d wanted me to have it. Not that a voice told him.

  “Yeah, well. Telling people a little voice told you to do it never goes over well.” He offers me a half-smile.

  “I know what you mean.” Telling people you see inside their minds, read their emotions, and sometimes their thoughts, doesn’t go over so well either. Hence my stay many years ago at a Blue Shores equivalent.

  “You said weird things have happened to you since you’ve had the bracelet.” Will clearly remembers our conversation from his hospital room when he came out of the coma. “What did you mean?”

  Before I can explain, Smythe answers for me. Note to self: remind mentor that in this day and age, women can answer for themselves.

  “You’ll have to agree to mage training before I can tell you.”

  Seriously? He didn’t seem to have a problem with Blake or T knowing about minions, demons, and Justitians. What changed? Yet another question for my mentor once we leave.

  “Or what? You’ll have to kill me?”

  “Don’t be dramatic. Mages don’t kill mages.”

  Only Justitians. And only if the mage’s name is Samantha, aka the bitch who hired a regiment of minions to try to kill me. Not that anyone except Smythe believes she did it. But hey, what Will doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

  The grip on my wrist tightens as if he heard me. Damn. My mental barriers aren’t as good as I thought.

  “And if I agree? What then? What does this training involve? Why train?”

  “Mages are the protectors against evil.”

  Can he get any more dramatic?

  “You fight evil? Like comic book characters?”

  “We don’t have capes.”

  One side of Will’s lips turn up, as if he thinks Smythe jokes. “I’m too sick to train. You’ll have to come back.”