Page 7 of Seducing Hope (The Hope Legacy)

Sniffing the air, I wrinkle my nose. “I smell burning.”

Duncan punches Eric in the face. I grimace as I hear cartilage breaking, and something splatters across my face.

Eric staggers back, nearly tripping on an errant piece of rubbish. “My master will make you suffer for an eternity. He’ll strip the flesh from your bones and feed it to the hounds of hell!” he screams.

Interrupting Eric’s threat to damn us to eternity, Duncan pulls on the end of my braid and brings it around so I can examine it.

I whirl on him. “You singed my hair!”

Duncan’s lips turn up as he uses his nickname for me. “No, Locks, you just weren’t fast enough.”

Eric advances again, his face twisted with rage.

He lashes out and catches my arm with his claws. Several stinging scratches dribble blood.

Using my irritation to put extra force behind my thrust, I swing my blade high and slice perpendicular to Eric’s neck.

His head, now a vivid purple with lilac freckles, hits the ground and, like a bowling ball, bounces twice, spins to the right, and hits the warehouse wall.

I sniff haughtily. “I disagree—your aim is off. Seriously, when’s the last time you practiced with those fireballs you throw around willy-nilly?” I examine my hair again and groan. “You’re lucky it was just the ends.”

Surveying the room, I point my finger at Duncan. “Your turn.”

He shakes his head. “No way, I mopped up the nest of vampires last week. Anyway, you’re already covered in…” He points up and down at my black combat gear coated in demon blood and guts. I stare at the ceiling, trying to get my annoyance in check.

“Why can’t they gopoof?” I emphasize by clapping my hands in front of me. “Like in the movies?”

Duncan scratches his beard. “Which movies?”

I try to think on my feet. “Buffy?”

“You’re joking, right?”

I put my hands on my hips. “They get ‘dusted’ by the slayer. It’s clean, it’s neat, and Buffy goes home without getting sweaty. In fact, half the time she goes on a date or out with her friends afterwards and nobody is the wiser about her efforts to keep Sunnydale safe.”

He stifles a laugh as he grabs my injured arm. Healing warmth suffuses my skin as he passes his palm over the scratches. “You know the name of the town Buffy protects?”

“And you do, too, by the sound of it,” I retort with a grin. He looks away, but not before I catch the blush creeping up his cheeks. Ha, I knew it. He’s a closet Buffy fan. The stinging in my arm diffuses, and Duncan lifts his hand away to reveal pink, fresh tissue.

I move my arm back and forth, testing the tightness of the skin. “Your healing power never ceases to amaze me,” I mutter.

After our unique meeting four years ago, where I narrowly escaped being eaten by demons, Duncan trained me to hide my unusual aura—the thing the demons were attracted to in the first place. Some humans have extra abilities; I’m blessed with the psychic ability to see auras. I can perceive things beyond the physical senses (taste, smell, physical sight, touch), and it gives me access to the visual perception of the astral body, also known as “psychosoma.” My power just needed a little honing. Since then, I’ve come to understand most people are a single color or hues of that color, unlike me. Demons, on the other hand, give off a variety of auras; unnatural power generally results in an unnatural aura. My regular mental shields are strong, but they need to be stronger in order to keep my aura hidden. The most effective method is to mentally sing songs, much to the amusement of Duncan and anyone else who can read minds.

So, I have constant background music playing in my head, which has become as natural as breathing. However, when my emotions flare, I add another layer of protection by purposefully singing any given song. The great thing about music? There’s something that fits every situation, every mood. Take the time I found my Uncle Charlie in a compromising position in the pool house with a former teacher of mine—“Love Shack” by the B-52’s seemed appropriate, until I accidentally sang it out loud to a very embarrassed Miss Jacobs. Still, they were once childhood sweethearts—who am I to judge?

Bagging the two bodies, a severed head, arm, and torso in clear plastic like some grisly dry cleaning, I drag them to the spacious trunk. As I drop the head into the trunk, the demon’s milky eyes spring open; I jump back and let out a tiny squeak—not a good look for my carefully cultivated badass image.

Grinning, Duncan peers into the trunk. “He’s still dead, Locks. It’s just an involuntary reaction after death.”

I straighten my spine. “I knew that, it just caught me off guard.” I slam the trunk shut and stalk to the front passenger door.

Grabbing a clean cloth from the glove compartment, I sit in the front passenger seat with my legs dangling outside the car and begin cleaning my swords.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Duncan rolls his eyes. “Can’t you do that at home?”

I give him my death stare, hoping to convey his imminent demise should he continue this conversation.

He ignores me. Guess I need to work on my death stare.

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