Touch of the Demon kg-5

by Diana Rowland

  It advanced, opening its mouth in a deep, throbbing growl, giving me an unwelcome view of even more sharp teeth.

  “Shit,” I muttered as I backed away. “I don’t want any trouble. I’ll leave, okay?” Where the hell was Ilana? If I shouted for help, would that simply encourage the demon to attack?

  The question became moot as the demon made a leaping lunge at me, jaws wide. I let out a shocked yelp as I backpedaled, picturing those many pointy teeth sinking into my flesh. At the moment of impact, the demon’s jaws snapped shut, and it simply barreled into me, sending us both crashing to the floor. I scrambled to remember everything that Eilahn had taught me about fighting and tried to get my feet up and between us so that I could shove the savik off, but the creature was stronger, far more nimble, and fucking heavy. In seconds, it pinned me by my shoulders with one pair of hands and gripped my head between the other pair, ignoring my enthusiastic though useless struggles. It lowered its head as it said something in the demon language.

  My heart pounded. Where the fuck was Ilana or Safar? “I don’t speak your language!” I gasped. Maybe this was Mzatal’s way of killing me off in an entertaining manner?

  “He has touched you,” it said in heavily accented English, far better than any savik I’d ever encountered or heard of. “When? How?”

  Going still, I stared up at the demon. “Who?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew who it meant, but I wanted to be certain before revealing anything.

  “Szerain,” it said, speaking the name with a sibilant intensity that echoed from the walls of the shrine and back to us.

  Gulping, I nodded. “Yes,” I replied softly. “He’s my friend. I care about him very much.”

  The demon gave an odd whine. “When? Where?” It fixed its gold-flecked, luminescent purple eyes on me.

  Keeping my eyes on its, I gave my head a small shake. “I don’t dare say it. I don’t want Mzatal to know.”

  “He cannot penetrate here. Where? When?” it asked, the intensity in its voice taking on a near desperate edge.

  “On Earth,” I said. “He doesn’t know himself, but he seems content. He’s…” I groped for a way to explain what an FBI agent was. “He helps protect innocents,” I finally said. “We’re partners in this.”

  The savik released my shoulders and head then shifted off to crouch beside me. “Who guards him?”

  I pushed myself up to sit. I decided to dub this demon male, since it had that feel about it, though I had no idea if I was even close. “A syraza. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he is. He goes by Zack.”

  “Zakaar!” He gave a hiss-growl. “Ptarl of Rhyzkahl.” The ‘k’ sound in his words came out as its own guttural click, giving an unusual cadence to his speech. Zah-KH-aar. Rhyzzz-KH-ahl

  So Szerain was being guarded by Rhyzkahl’s syraza? “Is that good or bad?” I asked.

  The savik snorted. “Good, bad…meaningless. It simply is. Zakaar is of the old line. Zakaar will guard him well.”

  “He does,” I said quietly. “He guards him well.” I peered at him. “I am Kara Gillian.”

  The demon dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I am Turek, essence-sworn to Szerain.” There was something about the way Turek spoke, a deep resonance in the inflection, that told me he was not only very very old, but also that being essence-sworn to a lord was rare and special.

  “I am honored to meet you, Turek.” I leaned in toward him. “Can you tell me why he was exiled?”

  “It was his choice,” he replied, eyes luminescent.

  “His choice?!” I said, shocked. “But what…? Why would he do that? And why is he called an ‘oathbreaker’?”

  Turek brought his arms in close. “His actions were judged to violate an ancient oath, and so he is named kiraknikahl, oathbreaker. He holds information he chooses not to reveal concerning the ways and means of his anathema. For this, he is judged to be too dangerous to remain here, and fifteen years, nine months, six days, and two hundred twelve heartbeats ago chose exile over revelation.”

  I struggled to process that. It was loads more information than I’d ever managed to get up until now, yet at the same time it told me damn near nothing except that the scope of whatever he did was huge. More data for the mental clue board, I thought in frustration.

  “Is he exiled forever?”

  Turek stood and dipped a claw in the water of the pedestal. “It cannot be forever. The balance of potency suffers with the absence of even one qaztahl.” After a moment, he lifted his hand and traced a quick amber sigil with a single claw.

  I blinked in amazement as a horizontal circle of points of light spun lazily a couple of feet above the basin, making a flat-tire wobble on each revolution. Eleven points. Multiple strands of vari-colored light dropped from each point and twisted together below, like a ring of long fringe with its ends wound into a crazy ball of glowing string. The savik lifted its claw toward the dimmest of the light points that trailed only a single sickly strand. “Szerain. Diminished. Exiled. Vilified. All out of balance.”

  I scrambled to my feet. “If he’s so needed, then why can’t he come back now?”

  Turek remained silent and made a slashing motion with his hand, dispelling the ring of light. He touched the water again, eerie eyes on the fuzzy image taking shape above the water. I tugged at the collar in annoyance as if tugging could bring sharper focus, but slowly it began to coalesce into an image of the same man I saw in the Elinor bathtub memory, and looking no more like Ryan now than then. Will his personality be different as well? I wondered, uncomfortable worry twining through me again.

  “The demon council is at an impasse,” Turek finally said, again in that resonant tone that felt so powerful and ancient. Perhaps Earth summoners only ever called juvenile savik? They were considered second-level demons, but I had zero doubt that this particular demon was far stronger and had more arcane ability than even a tenth-level zhurn.

  “Until resolved, Szerain…” Turek paused as if the thought brought pain. “Szerain remains in exile. And it is safer there, safer hidden, than here. Much more challenging for others to reach him. And Zakaar is better able to suppress him should he emerge.” His top lip curled back from those razor teeth, and a low growl came from his throat. “He despised being submerged. He will not willingly submit to it again.”

  Gooseflesh crawled over me. I couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. “What happened to Elinor?”

  Turek tapped the lip of the basin, claw clicking on the stone, and the image shifted to the sweet-faced young woman. “I cannot speak of what happened to Elinor.”

  I let out a sigh. Once again with the damn oathbound crap.

  But Turek surprised me by continuing. “Szerain asked me to remain silent, and so silent I remain.” He shifted the image; Szerain again, but the expression seemed somehow harder.

  “What was he like?” I asked, eyes taking in everything about Szerain. “Was he…nice?” That wasn’t really the word I needed, but I couldn’t think of another way to convey what I so desperately wanted to know.

  The demon lowered his head and made a sound like a jarful of angry wasps. “Is. Is. What is he like.” He lifted his head again and punctuated his statement with a harsh snort. “He is Szerain,” he said as if that explained everything. “He is Szerain imprisoned. Rhyzkahl sealed what he could of his arcane potential, overlaid the life of a human.” He paused, then lifted his hand from the basin, allowing the image to fade. “He could not change Szerain’s core essence, but I do not know how that manifests in a different existence, in a different form.”

  “He can be very moody,” I said softly. “Sometimes he’s a real ass, and other times he’s gentle and kind. But he…cares for me.” What could Ryan possibly be going through now, not knowing what was happening to me, not knowing if I was alive or dead? Tears stung my eyes, and I had to blink furiously to hold them back.

  “Truly kind, kri. Long, very long ago,” Turek said.

  Worry nipped at me. “What do
you mean ‘long ago’?” I asked. “Is he not kind now? I mean, before he was exiled?”

  Turek bared his teeth again, but I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a snarl or smile. “Can be kind, kri. But not like during the first age. Not like before the gates collapsed and the potency rebounded. And then the blades brought more shift to all.” The savik seemed to droop. “He appeared to be regaining something of his old ways in the years before the cataclysm. Then it was gone.”

  I frowned. “The what? Blades?”

  Turek traced another sigil above the pedestal. “Tools of power for the Three: Rhyzkahl, Mzatal, Szerain. The Iliok—the essence blades.”

  An odd chill crawled down my spine at the name alone. “But what are they?”

  “Knives, daggers,” he said, finishing the sigil. “Each unique. Each shaped from a synthesis of the arcane core and the potency of iliur, of the essence.” An image coalesced above the pedestal. A simple dagger with a gold-hued blade and a hilt that flared at each end like an elongated apple core. A deep green jewel sparkled in its pommel, winking with amber lights.

  I stumbled back, feeling as if my blood had been replaced by ice. Ghostly agony flared throughout me, followed by a confusing maelstrom of horror, grief, terror. I was vaguely aware that I was moaning, No no no, yet I didn’t know what I was denying, only that I wanted to be away from the terrible image, the beautiful dagger.

  My foot caught on a lip of stone, and I nearly fell, but it was enough to pull my gaze away. As if suddenly released, I spun and fled outside, stumbling down the stairs and tripping on the last one. I sprawled onto the walkway, skinning palms and banging my knees harshly. Blood pounded in my ears. A reyza bellowed. Safar landed by the entrance and hissed at the savik. My breath came in short gasps. I had to get away from there. I managed to get back to my feet and hurried away from the shrine in an awkward walk-jog. My knees and palms throbbed and stung, but I didn’t care. I simply wanted to be away from that awful image.

  Safar bounded up to my side. “Kara Gillian? What has happened?”

  I shook my head and struggled to reduce the pace of my flight down to a brisk walk. Was this what a panic attack felt like? “N-nothing’s wrong,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t be able to explain it. “I just need some water.”

  The reyza gave a worried croon. “This way. Here.” He indicated another path, and I gladly followed it since it took me farther away from the shrine.

  My pace slowed a bit as we put some distance between us and the clearing. “Where did you and Ilana go, back at the shrine?” I asked, still trying to calm my breathing. “I was lucky Turek didn’t kill me.” I didn’t want to mention that he didn’t because the savik had sensed Szerain as Ryan had touched me.

  Safar spread his wings and folded them close again. “I heed the wisdom of the Elders. Ilana said to leave you be, and so I did,” he said, then snorted. “I doubt your survival had any foundation in luck.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was a setup? A thin stream of anger rose, but between the shaking fear that still coursed through me and the realization that I’d obtained a shitload of information on Szerain, it fizzled before it got far. If it was a setup, that meant Ilana wanted me to meet Turek, wanted me to find out more about Szerain. But why? Another note for the mental clue board.

  Safar guided me through big double doors at the palace’s south face and then into the spacious corridor—the one Ilana had taken me through—that led to the garden with the columned pavilion. He ushered me down a side hallway and into a snug courtyard with a fountain against the far wall. A faas filled an urn from the tumbling miniature waterfall, then hopped through a nearby doorway. The smell of roasting meat clued me in that we were probably near the kitchen. I headed to the fountain and stuck my hands under the cool water, keeping them in long after the dirt was washed clean as I tried unsuccessfully to shake the sense of dread.

  “What has disturbed you?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin at the familiar and potent voice behind me. I whirled to see Mzatal regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes, hands behind his back.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, shaking water from my hands. Maybe that would keep him from noticing that they were trembling.

  His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he reached out and took one of my hands. “What has disturbed you?” he repeated as he held it flat between his. A tingle of warmth spread through my hand, and the dull ache from the scrapes faded.

  He healed it, I realized with astonishment. What the hell happened to the lord who was about to snap my neck? “I don’t know why I freaked out so badly,” I said. “In Szerain’s shrine place, Turek showed me an image of a knife. A dagger. That’s it.”

  “Szerain’s blade, Vsuhl. Hidden, lost.” Mzatal released my hand and then took the other. Once again the warm tingle spread through my palm, and to my surprise, in my bruised knees as well. Yet he didn’t release my hand after the warmth faded. “And still you tremble,” he said.

  “Yeah, it…” I grimaced and struggled to get my mental equilibrium back. It didn’t help that I was reeling a bit from Mzatal’s bizarre behavioral shift from “scary motherfucker who will snap your neck” to “oh let me heal those booboos on your hands.”

  “I guess it was a panic attack,” I said, though even as I did so, I frowned. I’d never had a panic attack in my life. “Last couple of days have been a bit stressful.”

  He continued to hold my hand. “Kara, breathe.”

  I scowled. “I am breathing.”

  “And still you are trembling,” he replied, voice persuasive and melodic. “Focus only on the breath. Three breaths. Then call up in your mind’s eye the pygah sigil.”

  My brow creased in bafflement. “The what?”

  One eyebrow lifted in what might have been surprise before he repeated, “The pygah.”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea what that is.” Was he fucking with me?

  Mzatal released my hand and traced a simple, harmonious form in the air, visible to me even with the collar on. He lowered his hand, smiling ever so slightly as it began to tone softly. “The pygah. The balancer. Foundation for breath work for a summoner.”

  “Show me again how to make it…please?” I asked, deeply curious, and at the same time wondering why the hell I didn’t know this if it was supposed to be so fundamental.

  He flicked his fingers to send the current sigil away, then traced the simple loops again while I watched closely. As he finished, he touched it with potency, an infusion of power to bring it to life, like turning on the electricity. “You followed?” he asked with a questioning tilt of his head.

  I nodded. I had no idea how to initiate a floater and knew I couldn’t even try while I wore the collar, but I’d memorized the pattern.

  “Now, trace it in your mind and breathe,” Mzatal said, exuding patience.

  A mental tracing? I complied, doing the three breaths thing, oddly surprised to find that it really did help, despite the collar. He nodded, approving. “Now you have the perspective to look at your fear.”

  “Okay,” I said, brow creased in a frown. “Now what?”

  “The rest is simple,” he said. “You have already, during a most challenging manifestation, recognized that which is you, and that which is Elinor.” I realized he was referring to yesterday when he revealed the statue to me. “This is no different.”

  Of course, I realized. I didn’t have a panic attack. It was that damn Elinor’s freakout.

  “Your fear today was acute and so interwoven you could not distinguish yourself from Elinor,” Mzatal continued. “Call up the image of Vsuhl again. Call up that which makes you tremble. Trace the sigil, breathe, and seek the boundary between you and the fear. Then expand until it is all of you and none of her.”

  I met his eyes for several heartbeats as I struggled to fathom whether this was some new game or trickery of his. He returned my gaze evenly, and I finally gave up and did my best to follow his instructions. Closing my eyes, I be
gan the careful breathing and visualized the sigil. Sweat broke out on my upper lip as I cautiously probed the memory, but gradually I could view it without the irrational reaction.

  I opened my eyes to see Mzatal watching me closely. “Practice this regularly,” he said in a tone that left no doubt that he was accustomed to being obeyed. “Panic will destroy you if you do not learn to defuse it efficiently and expeditiously.”

  He turned and walked away. “If you have not yet taken in the view from the west tower,” he said without glancing back or breaking stride, “ask Safar to take you. It is not to be missed, and we depart on the morrow.”

  I stared after him. Practice regularly and see the sights? Amazingly, I managed to bite down on the urge to shout after him, “Does this mean you’re not going to kill me in the morning?” Instead, I turned to Safar: “I guess we’re going to the west tower.”

  Chapter 6

  Safar stood, snorted, and bounded down the corridor. At the end he turned back to me and bared his teeth. “Come!”

  I smiled and trotted after him, down the central corridor of the west wing and then up a broad spiral stair in the west tower. I knew this stair, or at least Elinor did, but the eerie familiarity surged when we reached the seventh floor, where the chamber spanned the entire floor of the tower with huge windows all around. Eleven of them. I turned slowly, taking it in. Easels. Tables with paints, brushes, and a host of things I couldn’t identify. A bench with hammers, mallets, and a variety of chisels. A single wooden stool, unadorned and well-worn.

  Several sculptures lay toppled to the floor, broken, and at the base of one wall lay a dusty heap of shredded paintings. The stone above the heap bore a splodge of crimson paint, as though splattered from a container thrown with force. My gut wrenched at the wanton destruction of brilliance.