The Demon King

by Heather Killough-Walden

  But they wouldn’t find her, not on time.

  Lalura couldn’t exactly say she was surprised by this development. No more surprised than she’d been by any of the last attempts on her life, and certainly no more surprised than she’d been to find herself face to face with Evangeline. If anything was surprising at all, it was that she had not been able to keep the cabin’s location secret from the traitor. She’d certainly placed a lot of power into that shield.

  But - ah… she thought. But perhaps that’s it. Maybe the traitor had finally figured out how to stop looking for the hidden things and start looking for what kept them hidden in the first place. If that was the case, no one in the thirteen realms was safe from him.

  Least surprising of all, however, was who the traitor turned out to be. As she slowly stood from her rocking chair, a stable figure of unnatural calm amidst a whirling chaos of wind and wreckage, her thick gray hair broke loose in tendrils from her bun and blew in wisps around her weathered face. But her eyes were unmoving and steady, focused on the man across the room. Over the tumult of a building storm that grew in the middle of the living room, their gazes held.

  She could only smile. “Of course,” she said softly.

  The man had the audacity to smile back, flashing beautiful teeth. All of the kings’ teeth were beautiful. They were all very lovely men in Lalura’s old but not dead opinion. And most were lovely on the inside as well, if a little stiff and unyielding. They all had good, solid souls, in any case. A spirit of caring and empathy.

  All of them but this one.

  “You knew it was me, didn’t you, old bag?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper but amplified and personal and clearly audible even amidst the chaos.

  “I had my suspicions,” she replied.

  “Oh?”

  “Your beliefs are… old fashioned.”

  The traitor took a step forward. He seemed impervious to the baiting. Instead of counter the accusation, he said, “I’m an old fashioned kind of guy.”

  “Before you kill me, I want you to know,” said Lalura, “in the end, the Thirteen will win.”

  “You mean twelve.”

  “I do not,” said Lalura. “I mean Thirteen. A victorious Thirteen.”

  The traitor’s gaze narrowed, and green eyes sparked with fire. The table they had been brewing potions upon was picked up by the wind and thrown into oblivion. Neither Lalura nor the traitor flinched.

  “What makes you so sure?” the traitor asked.

  “The queen is the most powerful player on the board.”

  “What if the Entity has a queen too?”

  “He may,” sighed Lalura. “In the end. But what is one queen against more than a dozen?”

  Something like chunks of brick and mortar went sailing between the two, more victims of the whirlwind that was destroying the cabin. Yet, over the wail of the wind and the roar of destruction, the traitor’s voice was clean and clear. “If you are so certain of the future, Chantelle, then surely you knew of your impending death.” He smiled a beautiful smile. “And yet you failed to avoid it.”

  “At this point my troubled young man, I welcome it.”

  The traitor again paused, and more fire leapt to life in his starkly colored eyes. “I am anything but young.”

  “Compared to me, you’re a baby.”

  “Well then,” he said with finality. “Let’s fix that.”

  The traitor attacked, but he didn’t attack her, and once again, Lalura was not surprised. But she was old. In the circle of existence, a human being could go out one of three ways. He or she could die young. He or she could reach a middle-age, begin to absorb the wisdom that comes with time, and then die before it was used. Or he or she could grow old. In the latter case, there was an eventual moment of ultimate culmination in which the human body reached a pivotal point where it became as much a traitor as the man standing in that cabin. It became an object of betrayal, a less-than-capable cage for a spirit still dancing and a mind still spinning. It was a bag, a burden, a shackle of pain and weariness, and it moved slow. Always, it moved slow.

  That was the shackled burden Lalura at last bore in the wake of her enemy’s attack. Wouldn’t you just know it, she thought. It would have to happen now.

  He went after the girls, of course. Not her. He’d set the stage, spread the smog, and created a wind that would carry his magical poison to them instantaneously. Now, he used it. He redirected his magic, sending the poison after their huddled forms like black spears of death.

  Lalura had time to make only one move. She had to make a choice. She could either attack him outright; the best defense is a good offense. Or she could attempt to protect the two warlocks in her charge. Evie would be okay. As a vampire, and as one who was out of the way anyway, she would most likely survive. But Poppy was partly human, and humans were weak to nearly everything paranormal. Even worse, Violet was a fae. The fae were particularly vulnerable to this man’s poison, as there was iron in it.

  Only the traitor could use the attack he was using. It was unique to him and because it was, it was impossible to defend against perfectly. Defensive magic took practice. It was like matching an antidote to a poison. In this particular case, it was exactly like that. It was going to take everything Lalura had. Everything.

  Lalura was aware that the traitor had known she would make this choice. It was why he’d gone after the girls rather than her. It was the only way he could beat her.

  So be it.

  All at once, Lalura’s magic rushed out of her fragile form as if her soul were vomiting. It compressed together, stronger than it had ever been, and emptied her out. It was painful. It was fast. It was too much for her, and she knew it, but there were no other options.

  As her power evacuated her body in a mighty exodus, she closed her eyes. Her weathered form could not keep up with the speed she needed – so she left it behind.

  Finally.

  Arms of swirling, sparkling white sliced through the black cloud and ignored the hurricane wind as if it were a tornado on a screen, removed from reality, and unimportant. Those white magical arms formed fingers, talons of protection that reached out, seeking Lalura’s young charges in the entropy of the storm.

  Poppy had made it out of the cabin, but no further than the cobbled stone walkway of its front yard. There, she had been driven to her knees by the tremendous gale, her hair whipping around her face like fine tentacles, her teeth gritted in intense concentration. Her arms were raised at her sides, and her lips moved rapidly in the casting of a spell. The ground beneath the Winter Queen was rapidly icing over in the influence of her frozen power.

  She was completely unaware of the killing blow the traitor had dealt, or of the fact that it was split seconds away from striking her down.

  Violet had also made it out of the cabin, but she’d escaped in the opposite direction, having escaped through the kitchen and into the back garden where every flower had been ripped of its petals and every plant had been uprooted in the tempest. She’d stopped in her tracks, and unable to stay unsupported on her feet, she had braced herself against the stone fountain at the center of the garden. Just like Poppy, she spoke rapidly in the procession of a spell.

  These were capable women. These were queens. But the traitor had been preparing to cast this spell for a long time. He’d saved up, stored up, and planned as if he’d known it would take everything he had and then some, as if he’d known it would come down to this life and death moment – their lives… for her death.

  Lalura broke into three pieces, two of magic and one of rapidly cooling flesh, and bright blue irises watched a black curtain descend on the world. It was a world she’d been a part of for more than eleven decades. But her magic escaped the wrinkled visage of her cage once and for all and wrapped around the two women who yet remained on the ground.

  She could only hope that what she’d sent around them would last. She could only hope – and say good bye. She became the incorporeal shields that wou
ld absorb the traitor’s poisonous tendrils.

  She experienced a final thought. It grew fainter and fainter, as did all sensation.

  Until at last, the chaos, the wind, and the entropy made way for a calm everyone would one day come to know. But surely, it was a calm few would live to speak of. It was death, in its most merciful.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The neighborhood was oddly quiet from where he stood on the house’s front door step. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see traffic or a mail carrier or at least someone walking along the sidewalk. But it had grown quieter around him with each step he’d taken on the walk from the gate to the front door, and now it appeared as though humanity had ceased to exist. Where was the constant roar of jet engines overhead? The buzz and honk of traffic? All was silent. All was peaceful. Laz recalled what Bael had said about no one being able to visit his mother. Did this have something to do with it?

  He faced the door again and raised his hand, hesitating just a moment before knocking. But his descending knuckles never had a chance to meet the wood before the door swung partly open to reveal the house’s inhabitant.

  It was a young woman, no older than twenty, possibly twenty-five at a stretch. But she had eyes the very same blue as his own.

  Laz blinked. He did some quick math in his head. “Hello,” he said, and slapped on his most charming smile. “Is… your mother home by any chance?” It could technically be the kid’s grandmother he was looking for, he supposed. If a teen pregnancy had been involved.

  The woman at the threshold stared at him a moment, the depth of recognition to her gaze. Then, slowly, she smiled the warmest smile he’d ever beheld. “No, Laz,” she said softly. “It’s me.” She opened the door the rest of the way and swallowed hard. He saw her throat work as if it had grown tight with emotion. “Son, it’s been a long time.”

  It’s impossible was his first thought. But his second was, Nothing is impossible. Not in the world he’d found himself in, not anymore.

  And that would explain her eyes.

  “Please,” she said after a long pause. “Come inside.” She stepped to the side and gestured for him to enter. Laz studied her a moment, stuck in that paralyzing place between shock and acceptance. He took in her blonde hair that was full and fine in texture like spun gold, her slim neck devoid of decoration, her petite body in general, and the simple, cozy clothing she chose to wear – worn blue jeans, a sweat shirt that fell over one shoulder, and Converse sneakers. He processed it as he processed everything, quickly. And then he cleared his throat, nodded, and stepped past her into her home.

  The brownstone house was like its owner, small, cozy and beautiful. Directly across from the front door was a staircase landing. The banister leading up was polished cherry wood, as were the stairs themselves and the floor. The ceiling was covered in bas-relief tiles, the lights were all miniature chandeliers that shed soft, warm lighting, and the windows across the living room were draped in wispy curtains that let in some light, but not too much.

  There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Despite the time of year, it was still a comfortable temperature in the house, and the fire lent it a soothing glow. The furniture was tasteful, and the throws adorning the backs of the couches and chairs looked soft and warm. The paintings on the walls portrayed night scenes and hills and candy-colorful trees and dark nights filled with bright stars. Laz actually recognized the artist, Mario Jung. Laz himself was a fan of Mario Jung. He was surprised enough by the coincidence that he couldn’t help wondering about it.

  But he hadn’t seen his birth mother since just after he was born. Now was not the time to bring up shared artistic tastes.

  Laz waited as the blonde woman shut the door, turned and smiled at him, and then nervously led the way to the back of the house, where the kitchen was. He entered the room as if he knew it already. It was familiar to him, both in appearance and the way it felt. It was strange yet comforting. He almost recognized the cupboards, nearly knew the fridge, coffee maker, and microwave, and had the odd sensation that if someone had asked him to find a particular mug, plate, or bowl, he would have known exactly where it was in the cupboards.

  The counter in the center of the kitchen was both an island and a bar, with three stools on one side. A brass pot rack dangled over the island from the ceiling, and each pot hanging from it gleamed a high polished reflection of the second hearth in the house, which was against the far wall in the kitchen. It was also lit and merrily crackling.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Laz turned to face the woman, who had made her way to the electric kettle plugged in on the counter beside the fridge. “Uh,” he stuttered, which wasn’t like him at all. He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Tea?” she offered.

  “No thank you. I’m not much of a tea person.”

  “I have beer.”

  That sounded much more like it. But he shook his head and declined. He wanted to be clear-headed. It was the only way he was going to be able to ask the tough questions without emotion getting the better of him.

  “I suppose you have a thousand questions,” she said, her back to him as she filled the tea kettle and turned it on. “Like, how can I be so young, and why am I here in Boston, and how could I have been here this whole time? And I’m sure you…” she turned to face him, “want to know about your father.”

  Laz felt his eyes wide in his face. That about summed them all up, all those questions he had to ask. He was beginning to understand where his instinct and detecting skills came from.

  He just wasn’t sure which question he wanted answered first.

  “First of all,” the woman said, “My name is Lenore.” She smiled and her expression became one of distant memories. “Once upon a time, it was Lenore Bennett. I look young because I am young, Laz. I’ve been young since you were conceived, and I will be young until the day or night that I die. And as to the last question… it would take me months to tell you all I want to tell you about your father. We haven’t got months. So I’ll tell you what you need to know. Right now. To survive.”

  She paused, allowing her words to sink in.

  “And if you do survive, you can learn the rest later. And I know you will.”

  The tea kettle whistled, and Lenore twisted around to turn it off and grab a mug from the cupboard above it. Laz watched her with a growing sense of detachment. He recognized his own feelings as a necessary distancing, something he’d seen trauma victims do just after a car accident or a break-in. And since he knew it wouldn’t last, he took advantage of the few blessedly numb minutes he would have.

  He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and asked the question every adopted child wants to ask of their birth parents.

  “Why did you give me up?”

  Lenore froze mid-motion as she was drawing a mug from the cabinet above her. She remained stiff backed and motionless for a few seconds before she finally resumed movement and finished putting the mug on the counter. Laz watched her take the teapot off its electric base and carefully pour the steaming water into the mug, filling it half way. “Because I love you,” she said softly. “And so does your father.”

  A spike of anger moved through Laz. That was the answer they always gave, wasn’t it? They claimed it was for the child’s own good. And maybe it was. But for some reason, Laz had been looking for more of an explanation. He’d been expecting it.

  He opened his mouth to tell her so, when she suddenly left the tea-in-progress on the counter and spun to face him. He froze before he could speak, held immobile by the sight of her blue eyes, shiny with unshed tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lenore swallowed hard and closed those eyes, her poise rigid stiff with something she could barely contain. He watched her lips part, a small intake of breath, and her pulse raced in the side of her neck. “It had to hurt,” she said through a choked throat, “for it to work. For you to be conceived, for us to have you… it had to hurt.”
/>   A silence filled with loathing and even a little sickness filled the space between them. Without forethought, Laz said, “So he raped you.”

  “No.” She was quick to return, shaking her head adamantly. Her eyes flew open, pinning him with that color that was so much like his own. “No,” she said again, quite vehement in her insistence. “You’re just starting out on this path. There’s too much you don’t understand.” She gazed at him hard for a few moments more and sighed, her entire body heaving with a weariness that even as a seasoned police officer, he’d rarely seen. It was bizarre to see it in one so physically young.

  She turned away again, shaking her head. “Far too much.” She lifted her steaming mug. It was a weathered porcelain mug, chipped on one side, but he could still make out the faint outline of the Star Trek emblem on the other side. Apparently his mother was an original series fan.

  He watched her grab a tea bag from a second set of cupboards and drop it into the mug before she wrapped both hands around it as if for support. She brought the cup to her lips and inhaled the steam, her eyes again closed. “He offered me everything,” she said softly. “Anything I wanted, I could have.”

  She placed the mug back down on the counter and went to the fridge to pull out a container of soy milk. As she popped the quart open, she said, “I was forty years old when he found me. He seemed… fascinated by me. I was entranced. He was the most beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on.” She shook her head as she poured the milk into the mug. “Tall, strong, handsome. Deep black hair and deep, dark eyes… the kind that make promises only the most wicked can keep.” She smiled to herself as she returned the milk to the fridge and then retrieved her mug. She turned to face him, making eye contact. “But… I should start from the beginning.”