Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Rowland, Diana

  He released my shoulders, and I watched him visibly shift his focus from what happened to me and onto Idris. “The summoner who received him?” He lifted a hand, traced a quick message sigil and sent it.

  “It had to have been.” I rolled my shoulder, grimacing slightly at the residual ache. “Boss, I need to go to Earth to look for him.”

  To my surprise he shook his head. “No,” he said almost absently, eyes focused elsewhere.

  “No? Why not?” I frowned at him. “He’s on Earth. We sure as hell won’t find him from here.”

  His attention steadied on me, and he took my hand. “Forgive me, zharkat,” he said as he headed out of the grove. “I meant not you alone.”

  I peered up at him as we walked. What the hell was going on with him? I’d never seen him this distracted.

  “Right,” I said. “Of course. You send me, and then I summon you.” I searched his face. “Are you all right?”

  “I have asked Elofir to come here,” he told me as we exited the tree tunnel. Ilana was there, and beyond her the glass of Mzatal’s palace glittered in the afternoon sun. I gazed at the waterfall that tumbled from the cliff beneath the palace to join the sea far below. How had I never noticed the way the spray transformed the light into wavering rainbows?

  “To help you prepare a ritual to send me to Earth,” I said with a slight nod. “That makes sense.” I gazed at the palace. Those are some seriously nice digs, I thought in admiration, then blinked as the view shifted to the interior of Mzatal’s solarium. Ilana had transported us. I hadn’t expected that, but I didn’t mind at all that she’d saved us the walk.

  Mzatal murmured thanks to his ptarl, then turned to me as she departed. The worry was back in his eyes. “No,” he said. “I have asked him to come assess you.”

  My brow furrowed. “Me? Why?” I moved to an elegant settee, ran my hand over the lustrous wood and marveled at its sheen and the rich depth of the finish. “I hardly feel that zap anymore,” I told Mzatal.

  “It missed its mark,” he said, eyes going to the center of my chest before lifting to my face again, “but it is still quite active. I need perspective, and so I have called for Elofir.”

  I looked at him sharply. “Active?” All thoughts of wood and polish fled. “What is it doing?”

  He moved to me, very lightly touched my sternum. “That is what I will determine with Elofir,” he said. “You feel it in the scars, yes?”

  Anxiety began to tie clever knots in my stomach. “Well, they burned at first, but that’s mostly faded.” I felt the tingle of the grove activating. “Elofir’s here.”

  I startled a heartbeat later as he arrived in the room accompanied by Greeyer, his ptarl. Not that there was anything about Elofir I feared. Lithe like a dancer and with a gentle demeanor backed by quiet strength, he carried no hint of threat in his aura, and was the only true pacifist among the lords. Yet the situation had to be pretty serious if it couldn’t even wait the five minutes or so it took to walk from the grove.

  My heart began to pound unevenly as Mzatal turned to him. “It was an unknown implant wrought with rakkuhr,” he said without preamble.

  A grave expression settled on Elofir’s face. “Where did it strike?”

  “Her left shoulder,” Mzatal replied, “though it was intended for center chest. You will find it easily on assessment.” He tugged his hand over his hair in a very uncharacteristic show of anxiety.

  Elofir looked to me. “With your permission?”

  Throat tight, I nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course,” I said, eased ever so slightly by the courtesy.

  He gestured for me to sit, then dropped to one knee before me when I did so. Immediately I had the hyper-awareness of every single ache or pain or twinge or tickle or itch now that I knew something was wrong. Nose itches? Yep, definitely a brain tumor.

  He lightly touched my shoulder, then went still. To my surprise—and dismay—Mzatal began to pace.

  “How have you felt since it happened?” Elofir asked, voice mild.

  I gave Mzatal a worried glance. His obvious distress was starting to seriously freak me out. “I feel fine,” I told Elofir, looking back to him. “If anything, I seem to be more aware of stuff around me.”

  Mzatal stopped pacing abruptly and traced the pygah sigil to calm and center himself, apparently realizing he wasn’t exactly helping me chill.

  Elofir pulled his hand back and stood. He looked over at Mzatal and gave a small nod, confirming some suspicion to judge by the pain that flashed through Mzatal’s eyes.

  “Y’all need to tell me what’s going on before I lose it,” I said with a tight smile.

  Mzatal crouched before me and took my hands in his, ran his thumb over the cracked gem of my ring. It had been his Christmas present to me, though the rich blue stone in its intricate gold and silver setting had been whole at the time. The damage had happened when I threw the ring against the wall during a heated argument—a confrontation that had proven to be necessary to clear the air and establish trust in our relationship. I now cherished the ring with its crack as a reminder of the obstacles we’d overcome.

  He drew a breath. “Rhyzkahl used the rakkuhr to create an implant that can not only self-replicate but also adapt to accomplish its purpose,” Mzatal said, voice low. “Within minutes of the initial contact, it had diffused its outer layer throughout your physical body as well as in your aura.”

  I forced myself to not react, not speak, until I could process that a few times. “Like some sort of arcane virus?” I asked, a bit surprised that my voice actually sounded mostly normal.

  “That is a close analogy.”

  “And what is this virus meant to do?” I asked, very carefully maintaining my it’s-all-cool voice as much as possible.

  Mzatal’s hands spasmed briefly on mine, betraying the depth of his wrath, though it didn’t show in any other way. “Rhyzkahl activated it with a word,” he said, eyes on mine.

  I gulped. “Oh.” Rowan. He’d called me Rowan. In the horrific torture ritual, Rhyzkahl had sought—and failed—to strip my identity and create Rowan, a thrall unswervingly dedicated to his service, his tool. Looked like he hadn’t given up on his desire to own me. “That fucking son of a bitch.” I scowled to bury the sick fear. “My asshole ex-boyfriend gave me an infection.”

  “Elofir and I will contain it,” Mzatal assured me. “The implant missed its intended target.” He laid his fingers on my sternum, over the scar of the first sigil Rhyzkahl had carved. “Had it struck here, it would have activated my sign, then those of the other ten lords. Once complete, you, beloved, would be gone and Rowan birthed.”

  I shook my head in denial. “But I thought he couldn’t do shit with the scars after you crashed the ritual.”

  He moved his hand to rest on the small of my back over the twelfth scar, the one Rhyzkahl had failed to ignite during the ritual. “The unifier sigil is inert,” he said. “It is true that he cannot use it to conjoin the others and create that which he sought, a Rowan thrall to focus the unified potency of all eleven lords.”

  The place under his hand felt . . . normal. Though the other scars burned or tingled or crawled or itched at times, the twelfth seemed nothing more than grotesquely beautiful body art. “If he can’t turn me into a weaponized super Rowan, what the hell is he trying to do then?”

  “Adapt and use the other sigils to create a lesser thrall,” he told me. “One dedicated to his cause. I cannot determine the full purpose, but if nothing else it serves them to destroy you and strip my zharkat from me.”

  “Great. A budget Rowan.” The sick fear twisted. High tech or low end, either way I lost my identity and ceased to exist. “Can you get rid of it?” I asked tightly. “Some arcane antiviral?”

  “As it is crafted of rakkuhr, I do not know a means at this time.” His aura went very dangerous and dark. “The implant must first be contained
so that it cannot migrate to your chest, and then we will wring the means of its deactivation from Rhyzkahl.”

  I lifted a hand to his cheek. “First contain it, then we get Idris, and then we wring it out of Rhyzkahl.”

  “First you, then Idris. Yes,” he said softy, and I felt him pygah and calm. “It is best if you sleep deeply while we create the containment. Will you acquiesce?”

  “I’ll never argue with naptime,” I told him lightly.

  A faint smile brushed his lips, then he leaned in, kissed me, and sent me to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  I woke in bed to the sight of morning sunlight playing on the shimmering leaves of the grove beyond the southern window wall. A couple of feet away, Jekki crouched on his two hind legs and, with his other four paws, carefully held a hot mug of coffee ready and waiting for me. Damn, but I was spoiled.

  “Jekki, you’re amazing,” I said with a sleepy smile.

  The little blue faas chittered, purple iridescence shimmering over his pelt as his long and sinuous tail twisted. “Hell-o, how . . . arrrrre you. I am fine! Have a niiiiiice day. Earth!”

  It took a lot of effort, but I managed to contain my laughter. I sat up and took the mug from him. “That was excellent,” I told him. “You can also use ‘What’s up?’ and ‘Have a good one!’” I resisted the urge to teach him Hasta la vista, baby.

  He peered at me, blinking his large bright golden eyes. “One of what?”

  “Er, a day or moment or encounter,” I said, then shrugged. “It’s fairly vague.”

  “Okie dokie!” he burbled. “Have a goooood one! Buh-bye!” And with that he zipped out.

  Remarkably cheered by the exchange with the clever demon, I sipped my coffee and conducted a quick personal assessment. I felt great, to my immense relief. I didn’t know exactly what Mzatal and Elofir had done, but not only did I no longer feel weird-tingly-odd, my twisted knee and various other dings and scratches were as good as new.

  Yep. Definitely spoiled. I finished my coffee, quickly bathed and dressed, then sat like a good girl so that the faas Faruk could braid my hair into something that looked a tad nicer than Unkempt Mop. As soon as she burbled her satisfaction with the result, I gave her a thanks and a head pat, then headed to the plexus.

  I was two steps past the entrance to the solarium when it registered that someone was asleep on the broad sofa. Mzatal? I jerked to a stop and wheeled back, then exhaled softly in relief as I realized it was Elofir. He lay spooned up against a sleeping dark-haired woman, his arm draped over her. I couldn’t help but smile at the tender sight. The woman was Michelle Cleland—a former drug addict who’d ended up in the demon realm as a “sacrifice” from the Symbol Man serial killer to Rhyzkahl.

  Ironically, it had probably saved her life. No longer a strung-out crack whore, Michelle had bloomed into a lovely young woman, clever and quick-witted. Moreover, she and Elofir had formed a deep attachment to rival the one I shared with Mzatal. She’d been sent to the demonic lord Vahl when she first arrived but had found her home with Elofir.

  The two looked utterly adorable curled up together like that, but as I continued down the hall, it clicked that the containment of the arcane virus must have been exceedingly difficult. The lords only needed sleep for a night every eight to ten days or after great exertion, and I highly doubted Elofir’s current slumber was simply from normal fatigue.

  With that unsettling thought, I continued on and successfully located Mzatal in the plexus chamber, relieved to find him awake and aware. He stood before the pedestal and basin in the center of the room adroitly working planet-stabilizing potency with practiced precision. Each of the lords maintained his own plexus, and if any shirked in their responsibilities, the entire world suffered. Every lord did his share. It was the one thing they all agreed on.

  Two ilius—Wuki and Dakdak—lay curled in the cushions like shifting multicolored smoke with hints of fangs, eyes, and sinuous bodies. A third, Tata, ceaselessly coiled and uncoiled beside Mzatal, waist-high, its eyes steadily visible and focused on the plexus flows. They were three of the dozen or so third-level demons that made their home in and around the palace. In the demon realm, ilius fit into the niche of arcane vultures, feeding on stray essence from dead or dying creatures. When I’d summoned them to Earth, I’d paid them with nutria which seemed to work well for all concerned except perhaps the nutria. I’d also thought of them as being fairly low in sentience and intelligence, little more than arcane bloodhounds I used to help me occasionally on cases. However, even though I still couldn’t communicate with them worth a damn, Mzatal had deep affinity with the creatures and actually consulted with them.

  Mzatal’s eyes remained on the blue-green strands and the pair of glowing orbs before him, but I felt his awareness of me as well as his assessment of my well-being. After I patiently waited a few minutes, he anchored the strands then moved to me, touched my cheek with the back of his fingers. He looked much better today, I noted. The stress and dismay no longer vibrated through him, which served to relieve the last traces of my own anxiety.

  I gave him a light kiss. “I feel fine now. It’s all going to be okay,” I said, reassuring us both.

  A surprisingly gentle smile touched his mouth. He rested a hand against my cheek, caressed it with his thumb. “Yes, the containment was successful.”

  “Perfect. Because in about five minutes I’m going outside. I’m going to nail down the seventh ring today, and then you can culminate it.” I referred to the seventh ring of the shikvihr—a powerful ritual consisting of eleven rings of eleven sigils each. Mastery of each ring significantly augmented a summoner’s focus and mastery of potency. Moreover, the completion of all eleven rings gave the ability to create and use floating sigils, or “floaters,” on Earth rather than only in the demon realm. The ability to use floaters meant a huge advantage in speed and effectiveness over chalk and blood drawings. Mastering all eleven rings was a rare accomplishment, but I intended to beat the odds and take home the This Summoner Kicks All the Ass Award.

  “You will have it by midday,” he said with utter confidence.

  I grinned. “Damn straight.”

  He glanced to the strands to make sure they still held, then slipped an arm around my waist. “If all agreements are made satisfactorily today,” he said as we exited the plexus, “it is my intention to set the ritual to send you to Earth for mid-afternoon today. Kadir arrives soon to begin preparations.”

  I stopped dead and stared at him. “Whoa. Hang on.” I held up a hand. “You want him to assist you in the ritual? You expect me to get inside a diagram with him at the controls?”

  Mzatal gave me a small frown. “Under agreement, there is no better choice.”

  “I don’t understand.” I shook my head. “He’s one of them. And, for that matter, why was he here yesterday?”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “He was here yesterday under a long-standing agreement allowing him access to the Little Waterfall. It helps him maintain stability.” He paused, gathering thoughts to explain. “Kadir and I have a history that extends far beyond his association with the Mraztur. His skill with the flows is unparalleled and, because of the implanted rakkuhr virus—even contained as it is—the sending ritual must be flawless.”

  I struggled to put aside my emotional reaction to Kadir. “I trust you, but how do you know he won’t break the agreement?” I gave him a sour smile. “The Mraztur haven’t exactly been bound by their ethics lately.”

  “No, they have not,” he agreed. He looked off into the distance even though we were still in the corridor. “But Kadir is meticulous with agreements. I have never known him to break even the smallest point.” He met my eyes again. “However, if what I require conflicts in any way with terms he has with the Mraztur, he will not come to agreement with me, and I will find another to assist.”

  His eyes held a flicker of worry. It was clear he pr
eferred to have Kadir do the ritual with him, and I forced myself to remember that his worry for me mattered as well. It was unfair not to take that into consideration.

  “All right.” I gave a grudging nod. “It’s obviously a complicated relationship, but I’ll trust you to trust him for me.” I angled my head. “Speaking of complicated things, are you going to give me some sort of training or FAQ on how to use Vsuhl properly?”

  Mzatal went still, and I felt the connection between us thin slightly as if it had grown distant. “Beloved, Vsuhl was not recovered for your use,” he said in a quiet, grave voice. “It is Szerain’s blade.”

  The odd change in his mood had me baffled, but I forged on anyway. “I know that,” I said. “But I’m its bearer now. Wouldn’t it be safer if I knew how to actually use it while I have it?”

  “No,” he said firmly, brows drawn together. “You are safe when it is away. You are not Vsuhl’s bearer. You are its custodian. It is Szerain’s blade.” His aura flared with each sentence, as if to punctuate it. “Too much for a human.”

  I’d taken a step back without realizing it. “Right,” I said. “Okay.” My throat felt tight, and I took another step back, feeling the sting of the rebuke. Had I said or done something wrong? Maybe I’d messed up when I used the blade the day before, and he was mad about it? “I . . . I’d better go work on the shikvihr,” I said and turned to go, bewildered and hurt.

  He reached out and caught my shoulder, pulled me to him. I didn’t resist and let him hold me close. Tension kept his body rigid, and though he said nothing, I felt his pain and regret that he’d upset me.

  I sighed against him, did my best to not be a ninny. There was obviously a lot more he wasn’t telling me, but now wasn’t the time to push the issue.

  “Yaghir tahn,” he finally said, voice soft. Forgive me. “The matter is complex and fraught.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool.” I looked up at him and forced a smile. “I’d better get started on the seventh ring.”

  He hesitated briefly, then released me and stepped back. “I will be there to culminate it when you are ready.”