On my return to the kitchen, I took my musings on a different tack. What about Szerain? Perhaps he could sketch the ring from my memory if he was unsubmerged enough? He’d surfaced on the confluence before, so logically, he’d do even better on the mini-nexus—as long as I kept well away from any touchy subjects relating to ptarls or his essence blade.
“Jekki, have you seen Ryan?” I asked as I dug in the kitchen junk drawer for a pencil.
“Climb and run and jump,” he burbled with a flick of one hand toward the back of the house. The obstacle course.
I found a partially chewed pencil with a bit of eraser left, then slugged down the rest of my coffee, thanked the faas and headed out back. I saw Ryan by the wall at the end of the course; he was smeared with mud and his t-shirt dark with sweat, but to my surprise Mzatal was there with him. The two stood face to face, obviously having words of some sort to judge by the expressions on both faces.
I stepped off the porch to approach them, and as I did so Mzatal turned abruptly and strode off down the path that led to the pond.
What the hell was that all about? I moved towards Ryan. “Hey, everything okay?”
His body jerked, and he took a stagger step back. He turned and blinked at me, disoriented, and I realized with a start it had been Szerain having angry words with Mzatal.
“Ryan,” I said with force, hoping the name would help him get his mental balance. “You okay?” Sure, I wanted to talk to Szerain, but in a more controlled manner.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then lifted a hand to wipe sweat from his face as he opened them and focused on me. “A little dizzy, that’s all.” He gave me a rueful smile that was very much Ryan. “Coffee, no breakfast, and a hard workout. I’m smart like that.”
I laughed in response, though I didn’t feel very amused. “Go shower and get some food, and then I need to use you.”
He gave me a comical leer. “Your place or mine?”
Snorting, I smacked him in the shoulder. “You have no place. I’m the mean landlady in this scenario.”
“Ooh, roleplay!” He laughed as he ducked my punch. “Yes, mean. Very mean. Okay, fine, I’ll go clean up then meet you in the kitchen.” He turned and jogged to the house.
A fierce ache bloomed in my chest as I watched him go. I was going to lose this. Ryan wasn’t real, and I was going to lose this awesome friendship, this person I could joke around with and tease. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it but keep the smile fixed on my face while one of my best friends slowly disappeared forever.
I followed him inside and heard the water already running in the bathroom. A search of the fridge for leftovers revealed half a pan of lasagna, some sort of chicken salad, guacamole, and half a cheesecake. After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled out the lasagna. Probably more calorific than the cheesecake, but I wouldn’t have a sugar-rush crash half an hour later.
By the time Ryan returned, dressed in khakis and a black t-shirt, I had two plates of lasagna heated up and on the table. He gave me a smile and dropped into one of the chairs. “For a mean landlady, you’re pretty nice.”
“I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” I told him as I sat, and we both fell silent for a few minutes while we downed the perfect combo of carbs and protein and fat.
“Damn, Zack can cook,” Ryan finally said, scraping up the last bits. “Okay, what do you need to use me for?”
I stuffed the last bite into my mouth and gulped it down. “Can you come out to the mini-nexus with me? I need to know if you can sense something.”
He leaned back, patted his stomach. “Sure, now that you’ve bribed me with food.”
On our way outside I paused to grab the pad and pencil as well as a tarp so we wouldn’t get wet butts from sitting on the ground. I spread the tarp over the mini-nexus and sat, then gestured for Ryan to sit in front of me. He gave me a questioning look but complied.
“Now, close your eyes and chill,” I said. “I’m trying something.”
He closed his eyes, frowned. “Trying what?”
“Chill!” I ordered. “Sheesh.”
He snorted, but subsided. I pygahed, and after a few minutes his posture shifted subtly. He drew a deep breath, though his eyes remained closed.
“Here,” Szerain said in a small, near breathless voice.
Relief swept through me. “We need a better drawing of the ring I saw when Idris was sent to Earth.” My mouth twitched. “I’ve been told that my art skills are, ah, less than optimal. Can you help? I have paper and a pencil.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes, I’ve seen your drawings.” But then his throat worked in a swallow. “I do not know if I can help.”
“Would you please try?” I asked. “I know this is a big request.”
He remained silent for long enough that I decided it was a refusal. I started to thank him and get up when he finally spoke in a soft voice.
“Show me.”
Settling back down, I took his hand and placed it against my cheek, aware that physical contact improved reading ability. I closed my eyes and called up the memory of the ring. Dual stones, dark red and onyx, set in intricate gold filigree.
“It is enough,” he said after a moment, though he still didn’t move.
Uncertain, I lowered his hand and set the paper and pencil in his lap. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“Help me to grip the pencil,” he said, voice wavering. “Difficult. Specific blocks are in place to deter. Will attempt.”
A pang sliced through me at the cruelty upon cruelty. His prison had been fitted with a goddamn anti-art filter. For what purpose other than to twist the knife? I curled his fingers around the pencil, then placed the tip on the paper. Silently willing support, I reached to take his other hand. Yet he remained inhumanly still, his hand ice cold in mine. I extended, touched the mini-nexus and waited silently. This had to work.
An odd ripple went through my body, and I realized he was using me as a conduit to draw potency from the mini-nexus. Controlling the flare of uncertainty, I allowed it, though I kept a damn close watch for any sign of him using that potency for anything other than the task at hand.
The pencil jerked across the pad in shaky, short movements. I remained quiet, pygahing for him and supporting. My eyes dropped to the pad. Little more than scribble marks on it.
Sweat dripped from his face to splop onto the paper. “New . . . page,” he said, voice intense and strained. I quickly turned to a clean sheet, and he began to draw again.
We repeated this process half a dozen more times, each sketch gradually improving on the one before, all while his other hand maintained a hard, ice cold grip on mine. Finally he began to move more fluidly, and he created a sketch of the ring far far better than my horrible rendition.
“Again,” he croaked. I flipped the page, though I took more care with this one to avoid smearing it. He drew a deep breath. “Pygah. Please,” he whispered in desperate determination.
Focusing, I mentally traced the calming, centering sigil, consciously facilitated the flow of potency to him. He sketched the ring one more time, then dropped the pencil. “All . . . I can do.”
I pulled the pad to me and let out a delighted laugh. “Hot damn! Thank you! That’s ten billion times better than mine.”
Szerain jerked, and his head lolled for an instant before Ryan straightened and blinked. I quickly closed the pad to hide the drawing of the ring.
“Did it work?” he asked with a puzzled frown, completely Ryan in voice and manner. “Felt like I went out for a while.”
“You did,” I said and gave a low laugh. “You fell asleep.”
He flexed his hands, puzzlement flickering in his eyes. “I’m freezing. In Louisiana. And sweating. Weird.” He shook them out. “What did you do?”
“Oh, I tried to call up your past lives,�
�� I said with a casual wave of my hand.
Ryan laughed. “You are such a liar.” He started to say more, but his face abruptly took on an I’m gonna barf look. I let out a curse as he rolled from cross-legged to hands and knees, and I shifted away barely in time to avoid the splatter of lasagna and who knew what else.
“Shit, Ryan.” I moved to his side—avoiding the barf—as he subsided into dry heaves. I rubbed his back as he barfed again, though it was little more than bile at this point.
After about a minute he shakily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grimaced and scrubbed the hand on the tarp before shifting away from the splatters to sit again. “Well,” he croaked, “I’m not a fan of whatever you did.”
“Sorry.” I winced. “It was, um, an aversion, but it wasn’t supposed to do that.”
A streak of blue caught my eye, and a heartbeat later Jekki zipped up to Ryan with a tumbler of tunjen in his hand.
“You’re the best, Jekki,” I said fervently. “Drink that, Ryan. It’ll help.”
He took the tumbler and gave the contents a dubious sniff. “What is it? And yes, before you give me a smartass answer, I know it’s fruit juice.” He gave me a crooked grin. “Something exotic?”
“It’s a demon realm version of the ultimate sports drink,” I told him.
He took a careful sip, blinked. “That’s good.” He quickly drained the glass.
“Told you.” I smiled, relieved to see his color return. “Better?”
“I feel fine now,” he said, getting to his feet. “But you get to hose down the tarp.”
“Only fair,” I admitted. “It was my fault, after all.”
“Glad my puke could be of service,” he said, then gave me a weak grin and returned inside.
After I hosed down the tarp and set it out to dry, I took the sketch pad, went in search of Paul, and found him dozing on the couch with his tablet on his chest. Nearby, Bryce sat in the comfy chair and fervently vaporized aliens with the sound muted.
Paul looked so damn adorable it seemed a crime to wake him. “Hey, Bryce?” I said quietly. “You think Paul will be awake soon?”
Bryce paused the game. “Only to stumble to his futon.” At my questioning look, he continued, “He keeps weird hours. Usually sleeps from about five or six in the morning until afternoon. He says that’s what feels normal to him, and makes it easy for him to connect with his contacts on the other side of the world.”
I controlled my disappointment with effort. A few more hours wouldn’t make a difference, right?
Bryce saw right through it, and his eyes dropped to the pad. “If you have something for him, he’d want you to wake him up.”
Well, Bryce knew him better than anyone, and I didn’t need any more encouragement. “Hey, Paul?” I touched him on the shoulder.
He startled enough to send a wisp of guilt through me, then gave me a sleepy smile and stretched like a waking kitten. “Hey, Kara. You need the couch?”
Somehow I managed to control the D’awwwwww, you’re so darn cute sappy smile. “No, but I do have something for the Idris hunt,” I said. “Sorry to wake you, but Bryce said you’d want to see it.”
Paul pushed himself up to sit, curiosity winning out over a desire for more sleep. “Yeah? Whatcha got?”
I opened the pad up to the final drawing of the ring, carefully tore out the page and handed it to him. “What about this? Can you do something with this?”
He set his tablet aside and took the sheet, eyes widening in surprise at the quality of the drawing. “Wow. I can totally work with this.” He looked up at me, incredulous. “You did this?”
I laughed. “Are you kidding? No, someone else did, but it’s best not to ask too many questions about that.”
“That’s cool,” he said with a grin. “I’m used to not asking questions.” He stood and started toward the office with page and tablet in hand. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“You’re wonderful,” I said fervently, then flopped down in the place he’d vacated. Jekki whooshed in and put a plate of mini-pancakes and bacon on the coffee table.
Bryce thanked him and tossed the second controller to me. “Bet you a dollar Paul will have something in ten minutes.”
I took the controller, raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll take that bet. No one’s that good.”
Bryce opened his mouth for a comeback, but Jekki beat him too it. “No doubting the Paul-dude!” he exclaimed then zoomed back to the kitchen.
Bryce and I burst out laughing. He lifted his controller. “You heard Jekki. We only have ten minutes. Let’s do this thing.”
And we did. I sucked at video games in general, but even with my crappy skills, I still found something deeply satisfying in a recreation where I knew exactly who my enemies were and could then blast them into messy bits.
“Hey, Kara?” Paul shouted from the office a little later.
“What?” I hollered back, eyes still glued to the screen. These aliens weren’t going to kill themselves.
“I think I have something on the ring!”
Bryce laughed and put out his hand. “Pay up!”
I paused the game, then gave a mock-scowl and made a show of looking at my watch. “Damn. That took him a whole six minutes,” I muttered. “Freakin’ geniuses.”
“Never doubt the Paul-dude,” Bryce said with a sage nod.
My brain and experience told me there was no way Paul had found anything of significance so quickly, but I unfolded my legs, stood, and proceeded to the office. Bryce followed and leaned against the doorframe.
“Show me,” I said.
“I don’t know if it’s the same one,” Paul said as he beckoned me over to where he sat at the desk, laptop with mouse in front of him, and my old monitor to the side displaying a screen full of rapidly changing numbers. “But it looks pretty close to the drawing.”
Every possible doubt I had of his skill evaporated as I peered at the picture on his laptop screen. A faded color close-up photo of a woman in her early thirties or so seated at a picnic table and flanked by a smiling boy and girl about five or six years old. Twins perhaps? All appeared to be of middle-Eastern descent and each held up a paper cup as though for a toast. The trunk of a humongous redwood tree dominated the background. But the detail that drew my eye was the woman’s right hand and the ring on her middle finger, clearly visible against the white of the cup.
“That sure looks like it,” I murmured. I took in the features of the unusual ring and allowed myself a mental sigh of disappointment that we didn’t instantly have our guy. The hand I’d seen had definitely been a man’s. “Can you zoom in?” Paul clicked the mouse a few times, and the ring obligingly grew larger, though fuzzy.
“It’s a scan of an older photo, which is why it’s pixilated,” he explained. “It was scanned about a decade ago, but I think the photo itself is about forty years old judging by the clothing style.”
“I can see the ring well enough,” I said. “Zoom back out, please?” He obliged. I tried to see if anyone in the picture looked familiar, but came up empty.
“It’s either the same ring or one exactly like it,” I said.
“This is the only image I felt,” he told me, “which means that if there are more like it, it’s unlikely there are pictures of them anywhere online.”
I blinked. “That you felt?”
Paul ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. “Um, yeah.” He fidgeted. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Mzatal told me you use the computers as a way to connect to the Earth flows.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Is that what you mean?”
His face brightened. “Yeah. I didn’t know that’s what it was until I met Lord Mzatal. I, um, don’t usually talk about it.” He glanced beyond me to Bryce as though for reassurance, then brought his gaze back to me.
“Trust me, this is a safe place for talking about weird shit,” I said with a laugh. “Is that how you found an obscure photo of the ring so quickly?”
“Pretty much.” Then he rolled his eyes. “If I’d used conventional methods alone it would have taken ages, or I might not have found it at all.”
“And it’s exactly what I was looking for.” I lifted my chin toward the screen. “However, it wasn’t on a female hand when I saw it. Can you find out who this woman is?”
Paul smiled. “Way ahead of you. It was easy to link to the photo. I’ll show you the name. Better than me trying to pronounce it.” He changed screens so I could read it for myself.
I straightened. “I know that name. She’s a summoner.” Rasha Hassan Jalal al-Khouri. This was the woman who’d summoned Jekki’s partner, Faruk, during the Christmas celebration while I was in the demon realm. According to Mzatal, it was the first time she’d summoned in almost a decade. I looked back toward the door. “Jekki!”
Bryce smiled at Paul. “Good job, kid.”
A streak of blue flashed past Bryce’s legs. “Kara Gillian!”
I grinned at the demon’s exuberance. “Jekki, we have a lead. Can you please go tell Mzatal I need him here?”
“Kri! Kri! Kri!” He spun and zipped out of the room, down the hall and out the back door like a little blue whirlwind.
Paul’s face held a pleased smile. “It’s probably the right ring then?”
“It’s a really good possibility,” I said, more than a little pleased myself. “You rock. I don’t suppose you can get a current address on her?”
He let out a dismissive snort. “Seriously? Give me something hard to do.” His screen shifted to something full of commands and code and who the hell knew what else, but Paul seemed utterly at home with it. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and about ten seconds later the printer hummed and spat out a sheet.
“That’s her current address, along with her vital statistics,” he informed us with a tilt of his head toward the printer. “Born in Egypt in 1934. Married in 1952 to a man named Sapar, who died October 31, 1956 in the Suez Crisis. She and her two children, twins born in 1955, emigrated to the U.S. in 1958. Has four grandchildren and two great grandchildren now as well.” He changed screens again. “And here are some more recent pics.” He leaned back to allow us to see better.
Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian) Page 34