Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(48)
“Why?” I ask warily, noting for the first time that he has black splatters all over his dark jacket and jeans. I reach forward and swipe a finger against one of the drops, and my finger drags away stained red. My face goes pale. “What is this?”
“Demon blood.”
Swallowing hard, I turn around and hurry to the kitchen, feeling suddenly queasy. Rushing to the sink, I start scrubbing the putrid blood off my finger, cringing the whole time that I touched it. I scrub my hands again just for good measure, wanting to make sure I get rid of all traces of the oily residue.
When I’m satisfied it’s actually gone, I dry my hands on the dishrag and turn around, keeping my palms braced on the countertop behind me as I look at Jerif. “What happened?” I ask, even though I don’t want to know.
“Why do you care?”
“Don’t be a dick, Jerif,” I tell him. “Are you saying that demons came to attack me tonight?”
“Tonight. Last night. The night before, the night before that…” he trails off when the blood drains from my face.
“Every night?” I whisper, shell-shocked. I hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
“Just about. They prefer to attack at night, but we’ve dispatched a few during the day too. Mostly imps.”
“Why?” I ask, running a hand through my tangled purple hair. “I don’t understand why they keep coming for me.”
He gives me a look like I’m an idiot for asking. “You’re a powerful demon. They can sense you. If they’re able to kill you, then they can take in some of your power. If there’s one thing demons are hungry for, it’s more power. Nobody revels in being at the bottom of the pecking order.”
My mouth drops open. “Nobody said anything about that!”
“What difference would it have made?” he asks. “We’d still be right here in the same place we are now.”
He’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. “What about Iceman—I mean, Rafferty? Has he found anything yet to get my block put back on? Then these demons wouldn’t be able to sense me anymore.”
“If he’d found something, do you think we’d still be wasting our energy babysitting you every damn day?”
I clench my teeth and press my fingers against my eyes, like they can somehow be a reset button to my life. I want to go back to when things were simple. Things still sucked, but at least it wasn’t to the level of demons are trying to kill me suckage.
“Where’s Crux?” I ask, feeling exhausted as the earlier adrenaline that spiked through me outside drains away.
I know I look just as bad as I feel, the heavy circles beneath my eyes giving me a battered appearance. My limbs are leaden and my brain foggy, but sleep is still an elusive bitch, and Jerif doesn’t look like he’s faring much better. Physically, he’s the same enigma he’s always been, pitch black skin and flickering flame eyes and hair, but the exhaustion wafting off of him is palpable.
“That’s really none of your business,” Jerif growls, and I have to fight the urge to break his nose and then revel in the sight of him choking on his own blood.
I blame my irritability on lack of sleep and definitely not the steady flow of demon blood in my veins. I glare at Jerif, but he’s too busy looking around at my house to notice.
“Remind me again why you insist on staying here instead of on our property where you’d be more protected? This place is a dump,” he observes, and just like that, any goodwill I was feeling toward him for his protection tonight evaporates, and my stomach clenches with hurt. If my dad were alive to hear that...
“Thanks for stopping by, Jerif. Don’t let the door bash your skull in on the way out,” I tell him with saccharine sweetness.
He gives an unamused snort and levels me with a look that says tempting, but no dice. I pointedly ignore him and then turn, pulling a mug out of my cabinet. Maybe a nice warm cup of tea will help calm my violent urges. I purposely don’t offer Jerif one. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea and actually think he’s welcome here or anything.
“You know, if you knocked this wall out, you could double the footprint of your kitchen. No one needs a formal dining room anymore, and you’d have plenty of space for a decent sized breakfast nook.”
I turn an incredulous look on Jerif. Is he serious?
“Thank you, Tim the Toolman Taylor, for that unsolicited opinion. I’d just like to point out that you have a formal dining room in your house.”
“Of course, because my house is a mansion, and mansions have formal dining rooms. But in this shack, the space needs to be allocated better.”
Fuck’s sake, does he even know how condescending and insulting he’s being?
“Is that your professional opinion based off of all your years in construction?” I snark.
Jerif smiles at me, but it looks more like a taunt than an expression of amusement.
“My cousin’s stepdad was a pretty prolific carpenter. I learned a thing or two,” he defends.
I cross my arms. “Oh, really?” I challenge.
“Yeah, you might have heard of him. His name is Joseph...you know, Jesus’s dad.”
Fuck. Walked right into that one.
I give Jerif my best come the fuck on stare, but he just meets my irritation head-on with a look of amused gotchya on his face. I immediately don’t believe him, but the more I stare into his flame-filled eyes, the more I wonder if he’s not actually pulling my leg. Just how old are these guys? The question is on the tip of my tongue, just ripe for the asking, but I swallow it down instead. Not my demons, not my problem. I’m trying to get as far from their world as I can, not dive curiosity-first into their life stories.