Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Rowland, Diana

  Bryce chuckled. “Nope. Luckily I’m pretty good at making it up as I go.” He passed a slow-moving car then waited until he was clear and back in his lane before speaking again. “What about this woman? Is there anything personal about her that might help?”

  I leaned forward. “Boss? You’re the one who actually knows her.”

  Mzatal turned his head to look at me. “She is near eighty years of age. Other than the summoning of Faruk at Christmas, I have not known her to summon in recent years. I have not encountered her in person nor, to my knowledge, has she ever visited the demon realm. She is competent, having survived to this age.”

  “Was she ever involved with Katashi?” I asked.

  “I am unaware of any current association,” he said, “though she is one of his oldest living students.”

  I chewed on that. Katashi had performed his miraculous first summoning in about 1926, so he’d probably been summoning for twenty-five or thirty years before she became his student.

  Was she summoning while she was married? I wondered. What did the normal family life of a summoner look like? I sure as hell wasn’t an example, nor was Tessa. “I know you said she hasn’t summoned much in a decade. Was she pretty good at it when she summoned regularly?”

  He regarded me, inclined his head. “For her time, she excelled.”

  “I wonder why she summoned Faruk,” I mused aloud as I settled back in my seat.

  “To play chess,” Mzatal replied.

  I blinked. “Seriously? She went through all of that for a chess partner?”

  “Faruk reported that Rasha was lonely,” he said. “There may be more, but it seemed Faruk told all she knew.” He exhaled. “And Faruk is a relatively simple summons.”

  A wash of pity for the old woman temporarily eclipsed her place on the possible bad guy list. I’d spent my summoning life isolated from other summoners except for Tessa and the few I met during my brief stint with Katashi. Hell, I’d grown up socially isolated as well, and pretty much without friends. “Lonely” and I were old and bitter pals.

  Pushing the unsettling thoughts away, I stuck my headphones on and started the playback of Idris’s call. I doubted that the two clues I’d found so far—StarFire hidden in start a fire, and the subtle implication of his family in his use of the word people—were the only ones he’d seeded into the conversation. Now I knew to listen for micro-pauses, inflections shifts, or emphasis, and during my second break from driving I finally got two more, one right after the other. Once I heard them, I couldn’t believe I’d missed them.

  I smiled, played it again.

  At first I thought they were trying to. Plant a. Seed of doubt, wanting me to. Shun. My old associations. But there’s FAR more shit going on than I ever dreamed of. You think you have everything figured out, then whOOSH! the game changes.

  Micro-pauses around “plant a” and “shun.” Plantation. Then he blatantly emphasized “far” and the end of “whoosh.” Far oosh. Farouche. Clever dude to leave as many clues as possible. After another dozen listens without any more discoveries, I shut the recorder off and kicked back to watch the scenery for a while.

  • • •

  Even limiting the “breathe and chill” breaks to ten minutes, it was well after dark when we finally arrived in Austin.

  Bryce followed the navigation commands of the GPS, focus sharpening as we neared the address. I remained silent until the nav system directed us to her street, then straightened and peered at house numbers. A retired summoner living in a nice middle-class subdivision in Austin. That was more than a little surreal.

  “There’s her house,” I said. “The ranch style, second on the right. Bryce can you circle the block? Everyone else, keep your eyes peeled for anything that looks off or might be a threat.”

  “Can do,” he said as we drove past. Normal protection wards flickered in my othersight, but a first glance didn’t reveal anything complex or serious. The area looked like a solid middle class neighborhood that had hit its prime a decade or two ago. Not shabby by a long shot, but in decline. Well-kept houses in a mix with those in varying states of disrepair. One of the three streetlights on the block was out, and pothole repair obviously wasn’t high on the municipality’s priority list.

  Bryce drove around the block, then parked several houses away from Rasha’s while he kept up a constant scan. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Though I could easily miss something in the dark.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Paul asked.

  “You’re coming with us,” I told him as I unbelted. “Bring your laptop.” I climbed out of the Escalade and looked around carefully as the others got out. Eilahn parked the motorcycle behind us, climbed off, then stretched. She carefully placed her helmet on the seat and gave me an I’ll-be-nearby look before she disappeared into the shadows to serve as our outside sentry. I took Mzatal’s hand, then gave Bryce a tilt of my head to indicate I needed to talk to the lord for a minute. He apparently understood, and beckoned to Paul.

  “You stick close to me, kid,” Bryce said as he walked with Paul a short ways down the cracked sidewalk. “We’re going to be hanging back a bit.”

  Once they were out of earshot, I looked up at Mzatal. “We’re all upset and worried about Idris, but I need you to please not scare the living hell out of this woman.”

  His mouth curved into a frown. “It is not my intention to do so.”

  “Yes, I know it’s not your intention,” I said dryly. “But you’re a wee bit intimidating without even trying.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Probably better if we don’t give her a heart attack before we find out what we need to know. So, could you be aware of it and try not to radiate your usual ‘Ima gonna fuck you up’ mojo?”

  “It has served well,” Mzatal stated as if reminding me.

  “On Earth?” I asked, pursing my lips.

  His frown lessened. “I do understand your meaning,” he said. “I will not cause her undue distress.”

  “No looming, no glowering, and especially no scowling,” I stated.

  He narrowed his eyes down at me. “You are stripping me of my finest devices.”

  “You still have me,” I informed him with a grin. “Maybe I should do the talking, and you can be my heavy.”

  A second passed before he smiled, no doubt needing the time to glean the mental imagery of what I meant. “I am willing to utilize this technique . . . once.”

  I chuckled, relieved. “Thanks, lover.”

  He slid his arms around and gave me a deep and luxurious kiss, then nuzzled my neck before releasing me. “I am now prepared to be heavy.”

  “Remind me to prepare you to be heavy more often,” I said a bit breathlessly.

  With that settled, we continued up the street toward her address, Bryce and Paul falling in behind us. Despite the slight decline of the neighborhood in general, Rasha’s property seemed to be well-maintained and neat.

  Mzatal approached the door, stripped the warding with a single gesture, as if brushing away cobwebs, then put his hand on the doorknob. It was locked, but he smoothly worked a strand of potency into the lock, and a second later he turned the knob and stepped in.

  Exhaling a breath, I followed, listening and scanning carefully, though I knew Mzatal would inform us of any threats. Paul and Bryce entered quickly behind us and closed the door with barely a click. I heard a clink of dishes in the kitchen and put a hand on Mzatal’s arm. Let me lead, I silently reminded him. The skin around his eyes tightened, but he allowed me to move in front of him.

  With Mzatal’s mojo like a roiling sun behind me, I stepped through an archway into a tidy kitchen. Rasha stood with her back to us, a delicate china cup in one arthritic hand as she placed a teakettle on a burner. A simple emerald green velour robe hung over her nightgown, above fake-jeweled slippers that managed to look elegant rather than gaudy. A thick braid of whi
te-grey hair hung past her shoulder blades, and what I could see of her face revealed fine lines and graceful aging.

  Mzatal’s dark aura rolled over her. She turned and sucked in a breath, warm brown eyes widening in shock as the cup slipped from her bent, rigid fingers to shatter on the tile floor. She made a strangled noise and took a step back, fumbled for the cane that rested against the counter as her eyes went from me to the lord who loomed behind me—despite the no-looming warning. Crap, she might still have a heart attack.

  “Rasha Hassan Jalal al-Khouri,” I said as I stepped forward. “I am Kara Gillian, and this is Lord Mzatal.” I didn’t bother to specify which of the three men behind me was the lord since it was fucking obvious. “We must speak with you.”

  Her lips silently formed my name as she backed into the counter. “I didn’t know,” she said, shaking voice holding a mere whisper of accent. “I . . . I couldn’t stop it. I should have warned you.”

  Wait, what? I had a demonic lord at my back and it was my name she triggered on? I knew Mzatal delved for the reason even now, but I didn’t have that nifty advantage. I had zero clue what she “couldn’t stop,” but there was no need to let her know that.

  “How could you not know?” I asked, keeping my question nice and vague.

  “They didn’t bring the poor child in until after we summoned Isumo.” Grief clouded with anger touched her voice. “I agreed to assist Aaron and the others with the summoning, not with what they did after.”

  Something I needed to be warned about? An act related to me she wanted to stop, but couldn’t? The poor child . . . Isumo . . . I stared in numb shock as the disjointed fragments lit a spark to illuminate a hideous picture. The rakkuhr trap in the semi-trailer. Isumo Katashi. And Idris’s murdered sister, Amber. It had to be.

  Mzatal’s already-heavy aura rose in a choking wave, backed by an ominous growl unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before. Rasha paled and clutched weakly at the counter as she swayed. I caught her arm, then shot Mzatal a warning glare. Stop! She’s about to fucking drop dead!

  With seething anger barely contained, Mzatal turned and strode away down the hall. I felt his deep turmoil and knew he distanced himself from her now for her benefit as well as his own. Extending, I touched him with what little reassurance I could offer. He’d read something terrible from her, but I’d find out soon enough what that was. For now I returned my attention to the shaking woman beside me.

  She inhaled, and her trembling eased. I felt the flicker of calm like a soothing touch and realized she’d pygahed.

  “Rasha, tell me who Aaron is.”

  Her fear evaporated into anger. “Aaron Asher.” She spoke his name with such contempt that I half-expected her to spit on the floor. “An arrogant, disrespectful son of a bitch. Once a colleague and student of mine.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail? Dresses in stupid flowy poet shirts?”

  At her nod, more of the terrible picture lit up. Aaron Asher was Mystery Man Twenty-two, who at times brought Rasha’s granddaughter, Jade, along with him to Farouche’s plantation. Moreover, we’d seen him with Idris in the video clip from the airport near Amarillo.

  I reviewed Rasha’s words and filled in the gaps. Rasha had assisted Asher and “others” with the summoning of Katashi, after which Amber had been brutalized and murdered and rigged with the rakkuhr trap. Which meant Katashi had to have brought the rakkuhr with him, direct from the Mraztur, prepped and ready to place on the young woman as a trap for me.

  “When did Asher come here?” I asked. “When did you help him summon Katashi?”

  “Almost a week ago,” she told me. “Monday. Yes, it was Monday, mid-afternoon.”

  Only a few hours before I arrived on Earth, and within the same time frame as the disruption in the flows that Mzatal had pinpointed—a disruption based in Austin and with hints of Idris’s signature. “Who else was with Asher?” I asked, well aware that my voice had gone hard. “Who else helped you summon Katashi?”

  Fear shone in her eyes again, but it wasn’t the perfectly natural fear of imminent destruction by a demonic lord. This was a more subtle, more insidious fear, and one with which I was all too familiar.

  Son of a bitch. Farouche. Like a “getting warmer” clue in the game of Hot or Cold, the fear in her eyes told me my question prodded uncomfortably at Farouche’s interests.

  I leaned close. “Was the other summoner a young man with curly blond hair?”

  She trembled in my grasp and swayed again. Hot, blazing hot! Nailed it first try. She opened her mouth and fought to answer, but her trembling only increased.

  “It’s all right,” I said, voice softening. “You don’t have to tell me.” Her reaction told me all I needed to know. Idris had indeed been here with the others.

  Her shaking subsided, but cold sweat dotted her upper lip. I glanced back at the two silent and watchful men.

  “Could y’all please take Rasha to the living room so she can get off her feet?” I asked, then gave the woman a smile as Bryce and Paul came forward and gently took her in hand. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told her. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  It wasn’t until they left the kitchen with Rasha that I allowed myself to look upon the full horror of all that happened here.

  My chest tightened, and I had to remind myself to breathe. Amber Palatino Gavin had been murdered here in this house, with her brother, Idris, present.

  Chapter 33

  I went in search of Mzatal and found him in the room at the end of the hall—Rasha’s summoning chamber. A permanent base diagram had been beautifully etched in the clay tile of the floor, and Mzatal stood atop it now, head lowered, hands in fists at his sides, and black fury roiling through his aura.

  “Did he see it?” I asked, had to ask, though my voice quavered. “Did Idris have to watch his sister’s rape and murder?”

  Teeth clenched, Mzatal lifted his head. His eyes met mine, and within the rage and pain and guilt that burned in them lay my answer.

  “Show me,” I whispered hoarsely. He looked away, and I moved to him, seized his hand. “Boss, show me. I need to know what you read from her.”

  He didn’t move for another several heartbeats, then finally laid his fingers against my temple.

  Images and impressions from Rasha’s memories tumbled through my mind, and I fought the urge to pull back from the disorienting wave. A heartbeat later I felt him focus, and the influx eased and resolved.

  My hand remained clenched on his as I processed the flood of visions and sounds and emotions, slipped into the flow of the woman’s memories.

  Idris leads us in the summoning ritual. Tsuneo and Aaron assist while I anchor. It is kind of the boy to leave that aspect to me. So very difficult to work the potency strands with hands stiff with pain. Talented and adept as well as kind. The summoning is smooth and perfect . . .

  Isumo arrives, his face contorted in agony. He carries a sigil like nothing I’ve ever seen. Red and chaotic and twisted. It feels wrong, but my questions and protests are ignored. Isumo calls for “the girl,” and my confusion rises as two men enter with a bound and gagged young woman . . .

  Idris is horrified. Amber, he shouts, and while Isumo and Aaron place the girl within the diagram, Idris struggles wildly against the men who brought her. Now I learn it is a death ritual, to be used to entrap one called Kara Gillian. I protest and refuse to assist, beg Isumo to reconsider. I do not understand why he would follow such a terrible path, yet he orders me removed from the chamber—my chamber. Tsuneo and Aaron take me out, and I see one of the other men look toward the girl with an ugly smile. He straightens and unfastens his belt . . .

  I sit in the living room. Isumo calls for the sigil to be placed in her. Rakkuhr, he calls it, and even the word feels unclean. I hear her weep and Idris beg mercy for her. Then cries and screams punctu
ated by sadistic grunts of pleasure. Then there are only screams and whimpers. For hours I listen and despise myself for not interfering, for doing nothing while they abuse her . . .

  Finally, silence, save for a low murmur of voices. After a few minutes the door to my chamber opens, and Tsuneo and the one with the ugly smile come out carrying a black body bag . . .

  What can I do? Terror fills me at the mere thought of calling the police. I am a foolish and useless old woman, and the girl’s blood lies on my hands as heavily as any of them. The men leave through the garage with the body bag and do not return . . .

  Idris is led out, shoved forward to sit on the couch. He does so, numbly, as if he has no fight left. “We were following node emissions,” he murmurs, stricken. “I was cooperating. They didn’t have to do that.” His voice is so hollow and lost, yet I think perhaps he has much fight yet within him, more than they can imagine. Isumo and Aaron finish in my summoning chamber, and then they all leave . . .

  The wave of memories receded, and I found myself with my forehead resting on Mzatal’s chest and his arms around me. Rasha didn’t have a name for the man with the ugly smile, the one who’d raped Amber, but I did: Jerry Steiner. He’d taken her from the plantation, brought her here, and helped ensure her end was not an easy one. Shuddering, I held Mzatal close as we shared the pain and found balance within each other.

  “They don’t know him,” I murmured and lifted my head to look into Mzatal’s face. “They don’t know Idris, and they made a huge mistake.” The Mraztur and their Earth accomplices could have ensured themselves a long-term and highly useful tool, simply with a touch of Farouche’s disturbing fear-influence and members of Idris’s family held as hostages. But instead they chose to defile and murder his sister before his eyes, when an unrelated person would have served as well for their gruesome death ritual. And certainly no need for Idris to witness it. I’d seen Idris’s face through Rasha’s eyes. They’d destroyed their tool along with his innocence and forged a true enemy.

  “They have indeed erred, to our advantage,” Mzatal said, though his voice still held a growl.