Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(63)

“What happened?” Crux asks Echo as he joins the growing crowd of Hellgate Guardians who are witnessing me lose my shit.

“I think Echo tried to kiss her,” Jerif deadpans.

“Har har, asshole. This has nothing to do with me. I think she’s freaking out because she killed a bunch of demons,” Echo supplies incorrectly.

“No,” I growl out. “I’m freaking out because they’re in my mouth!” I tell him, completely panicked. I spit on the ground, trying to get the horrible chalkiness out, not at all concerned that I’m flashing everyone my bra. “Shit, my taste buds are covered in demons!”

But as I continue to try to wipe my tongue and shake out the ash in my shirt and hair, it then dawns on me that I’m freaking out about the ash instead of freaking out about the death machine I just turned into. So...I go ahead and start freaking out about that too.

Turns out I’m not only a demon, but I’m also a fucking monster who turns into a psychopathic scythe-wielder with zero remorse.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.





16





“Delta, why are you crying?” Crux asks me, his green eyes wide. He looks positively stricken, like the sight of my tears is scarier than the horde of demons that just broke through the Hellgate.

“I’m just...feeling...a little...emotional right now...okay?” I say, my words broken up between little gulping sobs.

“Right. Umm…” Totally out of his element, he reaches down and pats my shoulder like I’m a lost puppy. Jerif smacks him upside the head.

“Look, I’m tough sometimes, okay? I just bitch-slapped some real-life demons with my walking stick blades and didn’t even bat an eye. But now I need to fucking process, and if my process includes some tears, that does not make me fucking weak, alright?”

“Okay…” Echo says with placating quickness, looking like he swallowed some of the ash that I’m currently dipped in.

All six of the Gate Guardians are looking down at me where I’m huddled outside the “outhouse,” which is really just an empty wooden structure that happens to be their Hellgate. I’m still shirtless, my arms covered in streaks of gray, and every so often, I sneeze from the ash that’s lodged in my nostrils.

The guys aren’t much better off. Alder has yellow pollen dusted all over him, Flint’s marbled fists are bloody, and Jerif reeks of sulfur and fire. But Crux? He looks even worse than me, with bits of gore stuck to him, matting his once blond hair so that the front of it is red. He even has a piece of what I think are intestines stuck to his bicep.

I sniff and swipe my cheeks with my T-shirt that’s still balled in my hands. At least my tears are helping wash away some of the death dust. “Why do you still look so good, Iceman?” I demand. Flint snickers at my nickname for the big blue demon.

Despite the visible tear in his suit jacket, Iceman somehow still looks like he could walk into a boardroom and become CEO. He just shrugs at my question and slips his hands into his pockets, showing no signs that he was shish-kebabbed earlier.

I get unsteadily to my feet and try to shake out my shirt again, but now it’s saturated with both ash and tears. There’s no way I’m putting that back on.

“Eyes away from our fifth,” Echo growls, and my head snaps up to see that both Flint and Alder are staring unapologetically at my chest. I’m not even wearing a cute bra. It’s just plain purple cotton, and unless you like the ash self-tanner look, hot mess doesn’t even begin to cover my current state.

Flint rolls his eyes. “Not your fifth yet if she ain’t been inducted in,” he says, which only seems to piss Echo off more.

The tattoos on his arms start to shift and spin, and just when I think Echo is going to try to strangle the other demon, Iceman steps forward. “Easy,” he says as he smoothly feeds my arms through the sleeves of his black dress shirt. He buttons it up for me, but I don’t miss how he leaves the top few undone. “Thanks,” I say as I roll up the sleeves.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, slipping his suit jacket back on and leaving it unbuttoned, showing a delicious view of his bare blue chest chiseled with muscles.

“I killed a bunch of demons,” I say, sniffing.

“It was only about seven…” Jerif says behind me.

“It was a fucking bunch,” I repeat, glaring scythe-blades at him. “Heaps of demons. Bucket loads. I swung, and poof! They just evaporated into ash. I mean, I worked at a bar. I haven’t been in a fight since high school. What the fuck was that?”

“You’re a demon,” Iceman tells me, as if that explains it.

“So that just gives me the right to go scythe swinging and not even care that I killed people?” I demand.

“Not people,” Jerif corrects. “Demons with no respect for balance or the agreements both sides are held to. And imps, who were horrible creatures that did horrible things while they lived. They deserve to die if they refuse to see the wrong in what they’re supporting. Maybe in their next round, they’ll do better.”

“Okay, but I’ve never fucking killed anything before except for houseplants that I forgot to water, so excuse me for being a little shaken up!”

Flint whistles. “Good Lucifer, this arguing is about as useful as a trap door in a canoe,” he says, his twang in full effect. “Nothing to worry ’bout, darlin’. You’re a Guardian, and that’s what you were doin’.”