Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 9

  “Thanks.”

  Smythe opens the door with one hand and gives me a little push with the other.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get the silent message sent by the guiding hand. Move it, move it, move it.

  “The demon didn’t stay long enough. And you’re right. We need to get better at reading the signals. I’ll mention that to Dad.”

  I nod, my attention caught on the opulence of the hallway. Gold and crystal chandeliers line the ceiling while plush carpeting swaths the floor in a style not seen outside of Trump’s apartment. How rich is The Agency? And if they have money to burn on chandeliers in an office hallway, why can’t they pony up and pay my salary so I can hunt the baddies full time?

  Do I even want them to pay my way? Getting my degree in nursing and my RN license took a lot of hard work, both in school and in my personal life. Do I really want to throw the hard work away for a free ride?

  Did I seriously ask myself that question?

  The free ride wouldn’t be so free if I had to hunt and kill minions in exchange for a paycheck. And I like my job in the ER.

  But still. These folks in their gilded offices had money to burn. The least they could do was to stop complaining about me working and do something to fix what they considered to be a problem.

  “Gin? What are you doing?” Smythe stands by a door, hand on the handle, his tone a perfect mix of curiosity and impatience. No wonder. He’s at the end of the hall.

  I’m still gawking by the door to the white room, or as he calls it, the landing room. I offer a half-smile of apology while hurrying to his side. Then he opens the door to a conference room, and I’m back to gawking. A row of windows slices a wall, the scenery overlooking the Boston harbor. A table the size of my living room sits in the middle, facing a screen. A projector hangs from the ceiling. Enough chairs squeeze around the table to fit half the city.

  No way in hell they can’t pay my salary.

  Why are they being so stubborn? The amount of money in this place guarantees that to them my yearly salary is what they earn in a day. Just goes to show the rich hold their money closer to their chests than us poor folk do.

  “You’re late.” David, Smythe’s dad, gestures to the clock hanging on the wall across from the bank of windows. Sure enough we’re one minute late for the meeting.

  Big whoop.

  “Sorry. Had to stop by and check out a murder scene.”

  “Stop giving excuses, and sit your asses down.”

  Smythe stiffens, a fine tremor tensing his jaw. Pissed off barely scratches the surface of the emotional wave that rolls off him and smacks into me.

  Family Feud 101: How to belittle your offspring in less than ten words. A game I’m familiar with.

  After an uncomfortable few seconds of a glaring contest between father and son, Smythe yanks out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I sit. No sense in antagonizing an already angry mage. No telling what magical spell he might zap my way.

  Once Smythe lands in the chair next to me, David clears his throat, the start to all meetings everywhere.

  “Samantha has a proposition to make, so I’ll turn it over to her.”

  As she stands, leather creaks, either the chair or her skin-tight black pants. How she shoves her ass into those things and manages to walk is over my head. My girlie parts would throw a hissy if I tried on her outfit.

  Not that I would. I’m pretty sure I’d have cellulite showing in places highlighted by those pants. Doesn’t look like she has that problem.

  Damn her to hell.

  “As you know,” Samantha’s glare coats my skin in ice, “My ward Micah is still in a coma from the fight with Zagan. In order to rescue Gin,” yet another frosty glare glides my direction, as if I’m to blame for Zagan capturing me and injuring the Justitian Micah, “we traveled to his lair and mapped the way. We’ve never been able to do that—”

  David clears his throat, raises a brow.

  “Excuse me. We’ve not been able to do that in centuries.”

  David nods as she corrects her statement.

  “So, I suggest we use this opportunity to wreak havoc on the demon and send him back to Hell where he belongs. Who’s with me?”

  The room explodes into a cacophony of voices for and against her idea, all vying for attention. My justitia reacts with a violent shaking, and I slap my hand on the vibrating links then drop my wrist in my lap before someone notices the malfunction. Why does my bracelet react so oddly to Zagan?

  Damn thing is supposed to kill demons. Not cozy up to the creatures.

  When I was captured, it was happy to see him. Now it refuses to hurt him. No, no, no, no, no, echoes through my head.

  Not my thought. I’m down with killing the demon who tried to turn me into his servant. If only to ensure I never become his servant. A shudder worms its way through my body. How can I think of killing him? I don’t want to kill Zagan. I don’t want him to come to harm.

  What am I thinking? Am I conflicted? Or going crazy? I’m no longer sure which one.

  As long as no one here notices. Knowing Samantha, she’d convince everyone to kill me instead and take the justitia.

  Won’t let them. Can’t kill Zagan.

  Samantha continues to talk, answering questions, but my hearing fades as the justitia’s voice screeches through my head. Can’t kill, can’t kill, can’t kill, can’t kill. It’s never spoken to me before. Given me images and feelings, yes, but nothing like this. An unhappy justitia is not a thing to take lightly.

  The chant echoes in my mind, circling round like water flowing through a narrow channel, the rush an overwhelming flood. I slap both hands over my ears. I want to scream its words, its agony, its dilemma, but I refrain.

  Smythe places a hand on my arm, his breath a hot whisper in my ear. “Are you okay?”

  His touch should comfort, instead warning signals fire. What if he gets into my mind? What if he reads my thoughts and realizes I’m closer to Zagan than I should be? What if he decides the justitia is better off without me?

  I gather all the mental barriers I can find and lock them around my thoughts. And pray that will keep Smythe from invading.

  “Bad headache.” Not a lie. A state of conflict tends to give a person a migraine.

  “Is something the matter?” David’s angry tone cuts through Smythe’s concern.

  “Headache. She needs to go home.”

  “Bullshit, son. She’s going on this mission, headache or not.”

  Is he crazy? What if I was really sick and not using a headache as a cover-up for my still vibrating justitia? Of course, if you are the leader of a group of mages whose job it is to kill demons and you’ve been awarded the ticket to a demon lair, you’re going to jump on that express train, sick employees be damned.

  Can’t blame him for wanting a dead demon.

  But what can I do to stay behind?

  “Get another Justitian.” In any other conversation the finality in Smythe’s voice would end the discussion. Unfortunately, David fails to pick up on the ultimatum.

  “There’s not another available.”

  Seriously? Are the other eleven engaged at this very moment in minion fighting?

  Smythe’s face mirrors my thoughts. “Gin is the only available Justitian?”

  “We thought this mission would work best if the mages took it on. We can kill the minions. Might not permanently damage the demon, but it would hinder his ability to create chaos on earth if we take out his force.”

  “Might work better with a couple of Justitians.”

  “Don’t want to risk the loss of lives.”

  “But my life is okay to lose?” What the fuck?

  “I didn’t say that.” David leans forward, hands slamming against the table. “You’ve been there before. You know what to expect. And that’s the most powerful justitia.”

  Yeah, but as it’s doing the shimmy on my wrist, most powerful is not the thought that comes to mind.

  “She’s…” Smythe pauses,
his sentence continuing in my mind, not ready. But as completing the sentence would reflect poorly on him as a mentor, he swallows instead. Nice to know my own mentor considers me amateurish. I am, but still. A little support would be nice.

  “Yes, son?”

  “She’s not well experienced in combat.”

  “Nonsense, son. She killed a minion the first night she wore the bracelet. She’s experienced enough. Besides, we’re sending in a team that can protect her. She’s going. Understand?”

  Smythe glares but jerks his head into a nod.

  “Good. The vote shows we’ll leave in an hour. Samantha, give us the run down on the attack.”

  Samantha’s speech blows by me, her words a hum of background noise. How am I going to get out of this?

  While I don’t mind killing Zagan’s minions, the thought of going up against him sends a jolt of anxiety through my system. My justitia refuses to fight the demon—okay, who am I kidding, I refuse to fight him, too. Can’t blame all my anxiety on the pesky bracelet. After all, he saved my life. Rescued me from a demon about to annihilate my ass. Sure, he tried to make me his servant, appeared in my bedroom, and in general creeps me out, but a part of me relates to him.

  It’s a defective part and usually smothered. As long as I don’t have to go on a mission to kill him.

  Smythe leans over, his lips brushing my ear. Tingles dance a tango across my skin, chasing away my case of nerves.

  “It’s not really a headache, is it?”

  When I face him, his lips are only inches from mine, but he doesn’t move. A jolt of awareness slams through my system, a do or die reaction having nothing to do with swords, and everything to do with a little horizontal action.

  Yeah, right. We’re in a boardroom. About to fight a demon. Sex should not be on my mind.

  And since he asked a question, I focus on speech and not a million other things I could be doing with my lips. “Not really.”

  “Cramps?”

  “Smythe!”

  Oops, I said his name a bit too loudly judging from the cessation of attack plans and the curious stares thrown our way. I wave a hand.

  “Sorry.”

  Samantha gives me a final glare and continues the battle plans.

  I turn back to Smythe. My mentor wears a grin the size of Alaska. The little devil. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention to the plans?” I whisper.

  “Shouldn’t you be telling me the truth?”

  I blink. No, really, I don’t think I should. But I’m saved from a response by David clapping his hands twice.

  “Grab your stuff and meet in the landing room. We leave in forty-five minutes.”

  The room empties faster than a keg at a frat party, leaving Smythe and I parked in our chairs.

  David stops by his son on his way out the door, a wrinkle creasing his brow. Worried about the mission? Or some other aspect of his job? “Stay safe, son.” One hand clamps on Smythe’s shoulder and releases, the male way of showing silent support.

  “Thanks. See you on the other side.”

  Tension rolls off David, and my fingers itch to touch his skin and get a look into his emotions. His eyes narrow on me as he pats Smythe’s shoulder twice. Does he know what I’m thinking? I wouldn’t put it past him. Smythe has an uncanny tendency to read my mind without me knowing he’s inside, so why wouldn’t his dad have the same scary ability?

  I drop my gaze to the table before he spells me into telling the truth.

  After two more pats on Smythe’s shoulder, David marches out the door, ramrod straight, taking with him the roiling mass of tension.

  I shove the chair back and stand. No sense in staying in here. “Did you catch anything they said?”

  “No,” he shrugs. “But the game plan rarely changes. I’m more concerned about you. If not a headache, then what?”

  Why couldn’t I have been assigned a mentor who forgot easily? Instead I get the human equivalent of a bulldog gnawing a bone. I’ve only been with Smythe a week and a half, but I know once he gets a hold of something he won’t let go until I spill.

  Talk about annoying.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Are you going to have a problem fighting?”

  “I’m good to kill minions. No worries.” As long as Zagan wasn’t there.

  “Is your justitia moving?”

  Great. He noticed.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s happy? Come on, let’s go. Tell me how this works.”

  “You know, you have a habit of changing the topic when you’re hiding info. What is it this time?”

  Busted. Shit. “Really. I’d rather not say.”

  “Don’t make me use magic to pry it out of you.”

  I shove the chair under the table and hope my glare gives him pause. He crosses his arms and raises a brow, silent speak for spill it.

  Do I dare? He knows Zagan tried to make me into a servant, but does he realize the extent I feel for the demon? How my justitia refuses to harm him?

  “It’s complicated.”

  “We have forty minutes.”

  “My justitia is friends with Zagan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Friends. Pals.”

  “I know the meaning of the word, Gin.” Apparently Frosty Glares 101 is a required class for guardians, judging by how Smythe excels at it. “Why do you say they’re friends?”

  “It’s screaming in my head not to kill Zagan. That it can’t kill Zagan.”

  “That doesn’t make them friends.”

  Should I tell him how happy the bracelet was to see the demon? How the demon called it his old friend?

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “When he captured me, my justitia was happy. Happy, Smythe. Like one of those videos of a dog greeting its master whom it hasn’t seen for months.” The justitia jumps, silver links pinching my skin. I shake my hand until the sting dissipates.

  The bracelet is not happy I told Smythe. What did it expect? For me to lie? If it wanted that outcome, it should’ve tried a little harder not to be so conspicuous and stopped dancing a jitterbug on my wrist.

  Lying might be second nature to me, but there was only so much spin I could put on the obvious.

  I expect f-bombs to rain like hailstones, instead Smythe throws a couple of blinks and a what-the-hell expression at me.

  Then his eyes narrow on my justitia, a teacher’s stare to a disobedient student. “After your capture you mentioned they knew each other, but this is not what I imagined.”

  “It’s not something I wanted to share.”

  “No kidding. Why does your justitia feel that way?”

  “I don’t know. I think there’s a lot about the justitias the Agency failed to mention.”

  “You’re new so there’s a lot you don’t understand yet. I’ve been here my whole life, and I can pretty much promise you talk of justitias and demons being friends has never happened.”

  “Neither did talk of what the runes mean. It took a demon to explain those to me.” Three sets of runes encircle my bracelet. According to Zagan one set is his name, one set is the name of my justitia, and the last set is the name of the first woman to wear the bracelet. The fact the runes meant something surprised the Agency.

  “Zagan is a liar. Good God, Gin, he’s the demon of deceit. How do you know he spoke the truth about the runes?”

  Oh, let’s see. I have his symbol tattooed on my neck courtesy of his claw. The same rune is on my bracelet. Doesn’t take an idiot to know Zagan tells the truth.

  He might be the demon of lies and deceit, but he’s telling the truth about the justitia.

  I might be spilling the proverbial beans on the clandestine friendship of my justitia and Zagan, but I’m not talking about my unwanted tattoo. At least not until I figure out why it's on my neck. .

  No sense in worrying the mentor more than he already was.

  “The justitia confirmed it. Not everything he says is lie
s. He says someone at the Agency wants me dead and hired him to do it.”

  “As I said before, you can’t hire a demon. You bind it to you and it’s a stupid thing to do. Not to mention dangerous. Your spell could backfire and leave you a servant of the demon. Forever.”

  Yeah, bad idea. Don’t have to tell me twice on that one.

  “But Samantha hired minions to try to kill me.”

  “Minions are still humans. No magic mojo involved. Money would hire a minion.” His eyes widen. “Why didn’t I think of that earlier? Where’s my laptop? I need—”

  “Hold on there, buddy. While I’m down with you finding evidence to put that bitch in her place, it’s about time for us to meet up with everyone else. And we have no supplies. What do we need?”

  Smythe blinks twice in rapid succession. “Oh. Right. Supplies. I need my sword. Leather pants. You need something more geared toward fighting. Business clothes won’t get you far in a demon fight.”

  I follow him to his apartment and into his bedroom, too lost in thought to pay much attention. I snap out of it when the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me staring at a pile of clothes on the bed. The lack of remembering my trip to here bothers me less than the upcoming fight.

  How the hell do I avoid meeting Zagan? Has Smythe done the math and concluded I’m in agreement with my justitia over the plan to not attack the demon? What will happen if someone on the team notices my indecision?

  Maybe they’ll think it’s because I’m a newbie. It could happen.

  More likely they’ll try to kill me. Which they might try to accomplish anyway.

  I do not have a good feeling about this mission. Not at all.

  But there’s not much I can do to stop it.

  Chapter Ten

  A dominatrix minus the whip and heels stares back at me from the mirror. Skintight leather pants encase my ass and just as I thought, the ole booty doesn’t look half as good as Samantha’s. Damn it. A long-sleeved black t-shirt and a pair of thick-soled black ankle boots round out my new look. I don’t even want to know who left these clothes in Smythe’s apartment. Okay, that’s a lie. I very much want to know. Clearly he’s not telling me something. First thing to do before today’s adventure: ask why he has women’s fighting clothes in his closet.