Fillion mewed up at me pitifully. “Yes, I’m quite sure he’d like you,” I told him. “How could he not?” The kitten clambered over my leg and let out another mew. “I hear you. I’m hungry too. Let’s go take care of that.”
The door swung open before I could move. With a menacing growl, Fuzzykins leaped onto the bed, hissed at me, snatched Fillion by the scruff of the neck, jumped down, and stalked out.
Didn’t matter. I got snuggle time in before she took him back. Grinning in triumph, I pushed back the covers only to find the surprise darling Fillion had left for me. I pursed my lips and regarded the damp spot on my comforter, then shrugged, yanked it off the bed, and trooped to the laundry room.
How could I be mad? I got to sleep with a kitten.
Chapter 5
Two hours later I chalked the final sigil of my diagram onto the concrete of the basement floor. Until I mastered all eleven levels of the shikvihr ritual, I was limited to using chalk on Earth rather than floating sigils. Not only did it take far longer with chalk to ready a diagram, but chalk tended to be less forgiving since it couldn’t be easily altered during a summoning. Harder to clean up, too.
I stood to better scrutinize each mark and examine the pattern as a whole. No room for errors, not when summoning a demonic lord. Even a willing one. It would suck to get ripped apart by the portal because I forgot a squiggle here or a swoop there.
Satisfied with the diagram, I moved to the heavy oak table and dropped the chalk into the large wooden cigar box that held my summoning implements. On impulse, I leaned close to the box and inhaled. The aroma of incense and candle wax triggered memories of the first time I summoned a demon, here in this basement, with my aunt guiding, encouraging, and supporting. I’d been completely terrified, hands shaking and voice little more than a squeak, yet the triumph when the demon appeared within my circle had been the greatest I’d ever felt in my life. In that moment I knew this was my calling. I was special, gifted, and destined to be more.
I chuckled softly at the naïve certainty of my younger self. Oh, I’d been destined for more, all right, though not the “more” I expected. Yet even though I’d been through unimaginable hell, I couldn’t regret becoming a summoner. My life before summoning had, frankly, sucked ass. Orphaned, acting out, and doing a variety of self-destructive stupid shit. Summoning had literally given me a new life.
The wooden box held a few other items as well. Two tiny bottles of oil—sandalwood and neroli—which I used with chalk and blood for the central sigils. A shallow blood collection bowl that hadn’t seen use in years. Though I now had far more skill in making a cut in the midst of ritual, I couldn’t bear the thought of tossing out the bowl. And, finally, my ritual knife. Nothing fancy—a simple buck knife with a wooden handle and a five inch single-edged blade in a plain leather sheath. But Aunt Tessa had given me that knife before my first summoning, and I’d never used any other for an Earthside ritual.
I picked up the knife, suddenly wistful. If I ever mastered the shikvihr I’d have no more need to shed blood for basic summonings, and the knife would become as obsolete as the bowl. I squared my shoulders. No, not “if.” When I mastered the shikvihr. So what if I had no idea when I’d be able to return to the demon realm for more training—or if Mzatal would be available to train me. I’d already achieved the seventh ring, and I damn well intended to get the rest.
The scent of cured tobacco mingled with the other aromas, and I smiled as older memories rose. My grandfather, Mike Pazhel, sitting on the front steps of this house with a cigar between two fingers, grinning and opening his arms to me as I ran to him after my first day of kindergarten. Walks through the woods with my hand in his as he pointed out wildlife and spun fantastic stories of the secret lives of the squirrels and birds and raccoons. He’d built this house with my grandmother, Gracie, who’d died a year before I was born. The cover story blamed a freak water heater explosion, but in fact Rhyzkahl had killed her along with four other summoners during a botched summoning of Szerain.
After her death the family fell apart. My grandfather tried to drown his sorrows in whiskey, my mom ran off and married my dad, who she’d been dating for two years, and Tessa left for Japan to study under Katashi. Mom got pregnant with me only a few months later and, due to financial circumstances, she and my dad ended up moving back into this house. My grandfather quit drinking, and for eight years I had the advantage of growing up with a loving family. Then my mother died of ovarian cancer, and less then two months later a heart attack claimed my beloved grandfather. Three years after that, a drunk driver killed my father, which indirectly started me on the path to becoming a summoner.
I unsheathed the knife and closed the box. Time to get down to business.
After one last inspection of the circle of chalked sigils on the floor, I took my place at the perimeter and concentrated on Mzatal and our bond. I’d hoped that doing so would help clear the pathways for the summoning, yet instead it rekindled a deep and distracting ache. I drew a breath and released it slowly, pushed aside the ache. There was hope for us, but not yet.
I gathered potency and sent out the preliminary “knocking” call that would let Mzatal know I wished to summon him. Continuing to hold the strands, I counted to one hundred then made a precise cut on my forearm and dripped blood onto the diagram. I sank into the rhythm of my chanting, and soon the summoning portal opened like a vortex of lightning-threaded, purple clouds. Unusual but not detrimental. Wind whipped around me as I set the knife down and lifted my arms. The binding strands jerked wildly in my grasp, but I adjusted expertly, held firm, and called out his name.
“Mzatal!”
My heart leaped as I felt him answer the call, but an instant later the portal lurched in a way I’d never experienced before, nearly causing me to lose my hold. Sweat dripping, I wrestled the potency flows, yet everything I did seemed to have the opposite effect of what I intended.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit portal!” I yelled into the vortex. “That’s the way you want to play? You think this is my first rodeo?” Pausing, I watched the mad flailing of the flows then yanked hard to damp the resonance. “Yeah, that’s right, bitch. You can just calm your ass down.” I continued to make careful corrections and finally constrained the vortex enough to pull Mzatal through. The swirling wind whined then dropped to nothing, leaving the smell of sulfur in its wake.
Breathing hard, I anchored the flows and sank to my knees as my muscles refused to hold me up any longer. Mzatal’s aura engulfed me like heat off lava, and I dragged my eyes up to him. He stood in the center of the diagram, silhouetted against the lightning flashes of the closing portal, with his feet shoulder width apart and hands in fists at his sides. Blood dripped from his nose to skitter and hiss across the arcane pattern on the floor like water on a hot griddle.
The portal closed behind him with a sharp crack, plunging us into semidarkness. “Kara Gillian,” he said in a voice rich, deep, and hard. “The timing is inopportune.”
Loss and dismay shot through my heart. “Lord Mzatal,” I said, doing my best to keep my own voice strong and steady. He’d closed the chink in his walls to a pinprick. “You have withdrawn more.”
Lifting his hand, he traced a pattern high in the air. Scintillating golden light followed the path of his fingers and settled into a slowly spinning sigil that cast a soft amber glow over us. “I do what I must,” he said through clenched teeth. With a swipe of his hand, he burned away the blood that flowed from his nose, though it remained as dark blotches on the burgundy of his shirt. Black hair threaded with strands of gold hung in a thick tightly woven braid over his right shoulder.
Searching his face, I stood. “We are stronger together.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but his face remained otherwise inscrutable. Only his eyes—flint grey, ancient, and beautiful—hinted at the turmoil within. “The potency flows of my world have degraded more. You felt the effects during the summoning. Why have you interrupted my work?”
I mentally reached through the pinprick in his wall, caressed him. “The valves are unstable, and I can’t maintain them on my own.” I lifted my chin. “We need Idris here. Has he recovered enough?”
“Sufficiently to work with me,” Mzatal said. “He is needed in my realm.” He moved toward me, and I took in his familiar scent like a sea breeze laced with musky spice.
“And what happens to your world if the valves collapse?” I narrowed my eyes. “Katashi is still here and continues with the Mraztur’s plans.” Mzatal could read my thoughts, so there was no need to offer lengthy explanations. “Only this morning a kzak was pushed through. What if that was a precursor for another incursion by Jesral or Amkir?”
Mzatal touched my bloody forearm and sent healing warmth into it, then lifted his hand and ran his fingers through my hair in a tender gesture. An instant later his hand tightened to grip my hair close to my scalp at the back of my head, holding me fast. The pinprick widened to a crack. “Without the valves my world would die. Yet it shakes itself apart now with anomalies and disruptions in the flows.”
“Then send Idris to me,” I said, pulse thrumming. “You have the other lords there.” I basked in the glimmer of our connection and yearned for its fullness. “I have no resources other than Eilahn. Zack is out. Szerain is a loose cannon. Bryce and Paul are in the demon realm. I only know the basics about the valves, and Katashi and his crew are out there somewhere. I need—” I leaned closer, pulling against his hold on my hair. “I need . . . Idris.”
His grip tightened as he drew my face close to his. “What you need is what I need,” he growled, breath hot on my cheek, and his lips almost brushing mine. The crack widened a fraction more. I could feel him on the verge of shattering the walls to open to me. In the resurgence of connection I silently urged him on. Together we could rise above anything.
We stood thus for several pulse-pounding seconds, then he released me and took a step back, narrowed the crack to the width of a hair. “But we must both be denied,” he said.
I dragged in a breath as he withdrew. “Why, Boss? Why?” My head knew the answer, but I had to ask for the sake of my heart.
“Because I do what I must.” The intensity of his voice drove the words through me. “I can remain no longer. Matters are dire in the demon realm, and I abandoned Seretis and Amkir in the midst of the repair of an anomaly.” He backed to the center of my summoning diagram. “Idris is best equipped to engage the valve issues here, but I will not be without a summoner. Contact Rasha Hassan Jalal al-Khouri. Tell her to be in her summoning chamber at dawn.”
“I’ll ask her.” No way would I order the elderly summoner to go to the demon realm. She might leap at the opportunity, or she might prefer tea and solitude.
Mzatal inclined his head. He understood that I intended to allow Rasha to choose whether to go or not. “Prepare to receive Bryce in the third hour after sunrise tomorrow,” he told me. “If I have acquired Rasha, I will send Idris as well.”
Dread flooded through me at Bryce’s name. He’d been Paul’s bodyguard and handler ever since the young computer genius had been kidnapped to work for Farouche. Over time Bryce had come to care for Paul as deeply as if they were the closest of brothers, and his role as bodyguard had transformed from a duty to a labor of love. No way would he leave Paul behind. “Is Paul . . . dead?”
“No, Kadir took him five days ago,” he said to my combined relief and horror. The creepy and unsettling Kadir had been instrumental in saving Paul’s life, but for Paul to go live with him was a different matter. Yet I couldn’t imagine that Mzatal would let Paul go with the psychopathic Kadir unless it was only possible option. “Bryce currently abides with Seretis,” he continued, “but he requires distraction from his worry for Paul and can be of use to you. Third hour after sunrise. Summon from our nexus, zharkat.” And with that he vanished in a flash of light.
I shielded my eyes, feeling his caress as the word whispered to my essence. Whether he was open or closed, I knew I would always be zharkat—beloved—to him. Dear one. That’s what Rhyzkahl used to call me. The difference between my connection with Mzatal and my so-called relationship with Rhyzkahl was as stark as the difference between moldy bargain-shelf white bread and gourmet New York cheesecake. I’d never fully trusted Rhyzkahl, even though I’d been needy and gullible enough to fall victim to his ploys. Not so with Mzatal. Our union had stripped away all pretense and guile. I knew without a whisper of doubt that he would never betray me with intent.
Wearily, I gazed with pride at my diagram and my summoning chamber. I lived a life that mattered, and right now that was more than enough. Had my grandmother felt the same way? She must have, otherwise why do it?
I wiped down the knife and sheathed it, placed it in the cigar box and put it away. I needed Idris, and the only way for that to happen was for Rasha to go to the demon realm. Weighing the various aspects, I climbed the stairs and emerged from the basement to a silent house. Jill was probably already asleep in her mobile home, with Steeev not far from her side. Eilahn was most likely on the nexus. I headed to the living room and plopped onto the sofa. Without Idris to manage valve repair, we’d lose ground to Katashi—with potentially catastrophic results. It had to be Rasha’s choice to go to the demon realm, but I sure as hell needed to get my sales pitch in order before I called her so she’d make the right choice.
As it turned out, I needed the preparation. Relocation from Austin to the demon realm was a brand-new concept for her, and she was firmly settled in her ways and her home. A twinge of guilt twisted my gut when I presented the end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it argument, but by the time I got to the part about how her arthritis would be cured and she’d be summoning again, I was in the flow of the debate. After some sweat on my part and tears on hers, she got on board, and an edge of excitement came into her voice. My guilt slid away, and I couldn’t help but smile as I listened to her list of what needed to be done and what mementos she wished to take with her. I made sure she understood what time she needed to be in her summoning chamber, then made my goodbyes and disconnected.
I reclined and gazed up at the ceiling, exhausted but pleased with the outcome. In a minute I’d get up and go to bed. Yep, any minute now.
Screw it. The sofa was comfortable enough.
Chapter 6
Sleep didn’t come immediately, and I drifted in a state of don’t-want-to-move. Thoughts tumbled sluggishly. What if the Rasha-Idris deal goes wrong, and Mzatal doesn’t send Idris? No. It can’t. She’ll come through. Bryce and Idris need a vehicle. Jill has an old car that she rarely uses. I’ll ask her if I can borrow it. Sheets and towels. They’ll need those. Clean ones. Bryce in the guestroom, and Idris in the basement. That’ll work. If Ryan comes home and wants the basement back, he can suck eggs.
What does that even mean? An image rose of Ryan tapping a hole in one end of an egg and slurping out the contents. That doesn’t seem all that dire.
It’s probably something filthy. Dirty eggs.
Chickens are messy.
And who put a stupid nightlight sigil on the ceiling?
A voice brushed me, like a whisper of breath on my cheek. Familiar and unwelcome. I twitched physically and mentally, awake enough to ward off the encroaching nightmare.
“Kara?” Again. Clearer. Seeking.
Heart pounding, I jerked fully awake and sat up. Rhyzkahl. That was Rhyzkahl’s voice. What the fuck?
I looked around me. My living room. My sofa. The afghan in a heap on the floor. Fuzzykins perched on the recliner. The song-rasp of crickets. The whirr of the air conditioner cycling on. Normal.
I was definitely awake. I’d experienced enough dream visits from the treacherous Rhyzkahl to know the difference. I drew the afghan up and hugged it to my chest. My pulse slowed as the familiarity of my home embraced me. Fuzzykins hissed, her eyes round and locked onto me. She flattened her ears, hissed again. Yep. Normal.
Or not.
A dim amber sigil glowed on the ceili
ng. Not my sigil. Not my ceiling. A mosaic dome with its apex and sigil just below my tongue-and-groove paneling. Transparent, like an overlay.
“Kara?” Thin. Weak. “Are you . . . here?” In front of me.
My gaze snapped down. Superimposed over my fireplace was a ghostly image of Rhyzkahl upon a bed, naked except for a twisted sheet draped over his hip.
“What’s going on?” I demanded, breathing shallowly. “What the fuck are you doing?” Panic clawed within my chest as I recoiled on all levels.
The vision faded to little more than a shadow. “I . . . am here.” Distant. Desperate. “Stay. Kara.”
Stay? I hadn’t moved. The shadow brightened and clarified into the vision of Rhyzkahl in his bed over the backdrop of my living room.
“You still have a fucking link to me?” My voice shook with anger and visceral terror. “You worthless son of a bitch.” I should have known he’d find a way. Had he made this link as part of the rakkuhr virus? I squeezed my eyes closed in an attempt to shake the connection. Though I no longer saw the physical aspects of the living room, potency strands and my protective wards shimmered in othersight as expected. Yet the vision of Rhyzkahl intensified—vibrant and textured and real.
My eyes flew open, and I sucked in a breath as my living room returned with only a ghost of Rhyzkahl. I’m seeing him with othersight? That was different. In other dream sendings, I’d been fully asleep while he manipulated my experience to feel like reality.
“Kara!” He lifted a shaking hand toward me.
Heart hammering, I closed my eyes again. Slipped out of othersight. My wards dimmed. Rhyzkahl solidified more. A reyza bellowed in the distance. The heady fragrance of flowers mingled with an acrid tang of sweat and pain.
Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) Page 5