Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Rowland, Diana

  As if through a fog, I saw Bryce jerk against the bindings. “You fix this!” he shouted at Szerain. “I swear to god, if you don’t, I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Doubtful, little man, I thought as the fog cleared. The identity of whom the prisoner spoke slipped away like sand through my fingers, unimportant.

  Szerain released my head and stepped back, his always-keen eyes on me. A slice in his dark t-shirt revealed a hint of skin and faintly luminous blood.

  I rolled my head on my shoulders, looked down at my body, at the glorious scars given to me by my lord Rhyzkahl. I ran my hands over my face, my throat, my breasts, my body, then raised my eyes to Szerain in triumph. I watched his features shift into fuller lips and higher cheekbones as he embraced the reconnection with Vsuhl. Yes. This was the Szerain I knew so well.

  He drew a deeper breath, lowered his head slightly to regard me. Behind me, the bound captive cursed. That one would be a choice prize for Lord Kadir or Lord Amkir.

  “Szerain,” I said, smiling calmly as I inclined my head. A greeting of sorts, I supposed.

  “Rowan,” he replied.

  My smile widened. “You know me.”

  “I called you,” he said mildly as he took a half-step closer, blade down at his side. “And yes, I do know you. Very well. You should not be here.”

  “But you called me here.” Amused, I swept my gaze around before returning it to him. “And this place will serve as well as any other.” I let out a low laugh. “Better than any other. I have this.” I gestured to the mini-nexus below us. Ah, yes, my lord Rhyzkahl would be most pleased to have control of a converged confluence on Earth.

  Szerain’s grip shifted on the blade. Nervous? Satisfaction coiled through me. He should be. I’d have Vsuhl back from his diminished grasp soon enough, ready to hand over to Lord Jesral in triumph. Another few minutes of integration and my metamorphosis would be complete, my power beyond the imagination of any mere summoner.

  “You do not have anything, Rowan,” Szerain stated. “You are owned.” A sneer touched his mouth, though his eyes remained hard upon me, assessing. “Nothing but a tool.”

  I lifted my hands, looked at them, then looked beyond them to Szerain. I frowned. Why did that bother me? I was the tool of gods. In the void, a pinprick of light flickered distractingly.

  “Aren’t we all?” I asked him, lips curving into a smile.

  “Some more than others,” the lord replied, low and resonant.

  I fixed my gaze on the repulsive ring, on the cracked stone. Unworthy of one such as I. My lord Rhyzkahl would offer me true treasures, not the dross given by a lesser qaztahl. I slipped the ring from my finger, held it up before me. Delicious potency answered my call, flowed easily to me from the nexus. I focused it on the gem, delighted in the discordant vibration that rose within it. A heartbeat later it shattered in a magnificent shower of crimson sparks. “And I revel in the knowledge that I am owned by my lord Rhyzkahl.”

  “No,” Szerain said through clenched teeth, stepped closer. “You, Rowan, are owned by me.”

  I let the ring with its empty, twisted prongs drop to the grass, swung my gaze to him. “In that, Lord Szerain, you are mistaken—”

  —The syraza shrieked and dashed herself against the barrier. The prisoner shouted a word, a name, her name—

  —as Szerain buried the blade in my chest.

  I managed one brief gurgled gasp before white hot agony seared through me. I vaguely heard the captive yelling, cursing as he fought against the bonds of potency that restrained him. The syraza too screamed in rage, clawing at the arcane shield as I clutched at Szerain’s hand and arm.

  Blood filled my mouth, and I pulled my eyes up to Szerain’s. His mouth twisted in a merciless snarl, one hand locked in the hair at the back of my head as he twisted the blade, shoved it sideways. My knees buckled, but Szerain’s hold on the blade and my hair kept me upright. I coughed, and blood spilled over my chest and his hand.

  His eyes remained hot and intense upon mine, and once again he twisted the blade. Agony ripped through my entire body, as if Vsuhl excised life from every cell.

  Impossible. I am Rowan. I am . . . invincible.

  I tried to scream but had no breath, could only stare at Szerain in horror as my vision dimmed and the blood pounded in my ears. Kara . . . Kara . . . Kara . . .

  The captive. Still shouting her name. Face contorted in distress. So much like another who’d called to me. To me? Who was I?

  Vsuhl whispered. You are mine. I will keep you. I will hold you. Mine.

  Szerain cried out, screamed a word in demon, savagely twisted the blade once more and then banished it even as it remained buried in my chest. It dragged barbed hooks through me as it left, arcane pain more terrible than when Rhyzkahl sliced the mark from her arm. Kara’s arm?

  Kara . . . Kara . . . Kara . . . Elinor!

  Bryce. Mzatal. Calling. Giovanni. Calling.

  Elinor! Kara!

  I collapsed to my side. No breath. No pulse. No pain. Grey mist filled my vision.

  Szerain shoved me to my back, pressed his hands to my chest.

  Kara . . . Kara . . . Kara . . .

  Bryce. Calling. Calling my name. Mzatal. Calling . . . my name.

  My name.

  Kara.

  My name is Kara.

  Kara. I knew. Then a black wind swept in, and I knew nothing more.

  Chapter 43

  I woke on the sofa in my living room beneath a faded quilt. Sunlight beamed through a window, throwing a pattern of squares onto the rug. Not squares, I thought. No right angles. I struggled for a few seconds to come up with the right word. Quadrilaterals. Yeah, that was it. Still had my third grade math skills. That was cool.

  Someone stepped in the quadrilaterals, turned and stepped through them again. I lifted my focus a few feet. Bryce, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, stark worry twisting his features. Bryce. He’d called to me, shouted my name.

  Kara.

  I sucked in a gasp and jerked upright as memory crashed over me. Both hands flew to my chest, clawed at a blade that wasn’t there.

  Bryce whirled to face me. “Kara?”

  My pulse thundered as I fumbled at my chest. “Bryce?” I croaked. “I—” Pulse. Heart beating. I stilled my shaking hands and pressed them hard over my sternum. Felt the reassuring thud beneath it.

  A shift of movement near the door pulled my attention. Eilahn, eyes on me and a smile whispering across her face as she sat with one knee up and the other leg tucked beneath her. Bryce crouched before me and took hold of my shoulders, his features battered by uncertainty and fatigue as he searched my face. “Kara?” he asked. Asked. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure who I was.

  But I knew exactly who I was, and that knowledge steadied with each beat of my heart. “Yeah, I’m Kara,” I said, rewarded by relief that shone in his eyes. “I’m Kara,” I repeated, and would have said it a third time except something sharp jabbed at the palm of my left hand, distracting me.

  I pulled my hands from my chest to see what poked me, went cold and still at the sight of the twisted gold and silver prongs that thrust up from the empty setting of my ring like imploring hands. Sick grief wound through me. She had destroyed the stone. The cracked and perfect stone of the ring Mzatal had given me.

  Bryce released my shoulders, let out a low sigh. “He put it back on your finger,” he said in a low voice and touched a finger gently to the prongs. “After he brought you back, that is.” A whisper of pain and horror threaded through the words, and I looked up sharply. Shadows huddled beneath bloodshot eyes, and stubble marked an uneven path along his jawline.

  “You look like hell,” I blurted.

  He let out a wheezing laugh. “You’re one to fucking talk!”

  I struggled to laugh along with him, but it was a pitiful effort. Bryce sens
ed it and let his own die away, then shifted from the crouch to sit on the coffee table before me.

  “He told me he had to . . . summon her, summon Rowan in order to get her out of you.” Bryce shook his head. “I’m not explaining it very well. Sorry. I was kind of yelling at him a lot and probably missed some of what he said.”

  “It’s all right,” I murmured, then took a deeper breath. “I’m me again, and the virus is gone.” Of that I was certain. Szerain knew the rakkuhr with terrifying intimacy, knew Vsuhl’s hunger, and had used one nightmare to defeat another.

  And I didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

  “What happened after he,” I gestured vaguely at my sternum, “did that?” I had on a t-shirt, I suddenly realized. And running shorts. Eilahn’s work, no doubt. I gave her a nod of gratitude, for far more than the clothing. She inclined her head in response, relief stark on her features. She’d had no way to divine Szerain’s true intent and, like Bryce, had surely thought the worst.

  Bryce’s mouth twisted into a smile. “You mean after you joined the ‘Devastating Chest Wound’ club?” He thumped his own chest in mock-solidarity, and this time my laugh was more genuine. “Jesus, Kara,” he breathed. “When he stabbed you and twisted the blade, I thought that was it.” Remembered shock and horror flickered over his face. “But then the knife vanished. He dropped to his knees beside you and slapped his hand over the wound, started working the healing.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think he was sure he’d be able to save you. He was sweating it, hard.”

  I touched my chest again. “Yeah,” I said, voice quavering only a little. “I doubt that kind of damage to the heart by an essence blade is a walk in the park to fix.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Well, I don’t ever want to do that again.”

  “I’m with you there,” I said fervently. “I am one hundred percent cool with never getting stabbed in the chest again.”

  “So.” Bryce cleared his throat. “Agent Kristoff is a demonic lord. Did not see that coming.”

  I smiled weakly. “Surprise?”

  He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

  My fingers moved over my sternum, and I felt the sigil scar beneath the shirt, a gap in its lines where Vsuhl had cut and Szerain had healed. And Szerain had done something to the twelfth sigil, changed it. But to what?

  “So, uh, where’s Ryan?” And wasn’t that ever a loaded question, I realized after I asked it. My last memory of him was as a completely unsubmerged Szerain in full possession of his essence blade. I had no idea what sort of state he’d be in now.

  “I don’t know,” Bryce said with a slow shake of his head. “He left this morning and said he’d be back tonight.”

  “Did he look like . . . Ryan when he left?” I asked somewhat hesitantly. I had a sudden image of an unsubmerged, Vsuhl-wielding Szerain out in the world. I couldn’t help but worry about, well, consequences.

  “Yeah, he did,” Bryce said to my relief. “While you were busy getting pesky holes in your chest, Sonny left about a billion messages on my phone telling me Zack wanted to talk to Ryan—I mean, Szerain.” He grimaced. “Szerain went down to the basement to return Zack’s call, and when he came back up a little after sunrise he was all Ryan. Looks, mannerisms, everything.”

  Zack had sensed it all—the blade, Szerain unsubmerging. That must have freaked him out pretty hard. But how did Szerain get to be Ryan again? As far as I knew, the act of submersion—including making him look like Ryan—was inflicted on him by another. Had Zack recovered enough to blip over and do it? I found that improbable; he’d been a total mess when I left him. Could he have done it over the phone somehow?

  Or did another enforcer come to take Zack’s place? My mouth went dry at the thought. I doubted any other would show Szerain the mercies that had kept him sane for all these years.

  I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Anything to eat around here?”

  “There should be leftovers,” he said. “Plus sandwich stuff. Hang tight, and I’ll check.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.

  Not so easy to hang tight with a bladder about to burst. I made my way to the bathroom, did my business, then flopped back on the sofa and promptly fell asleep again.

  I woke to find a ham and cheese sandwich with chips on the coffee table, and Bryce dozing in the comfy chair with his head cocked to the side in a way that would likely leave him with an aching neck. A half-eaten sandwich rested forgotten on his thigh. I got up, gingerly retrieved his sandwich and returned it to a plate on the side table, adjusted his head to a more comfortable position then grabbed my food and headed for the kitchen.

  I ate slowly, savoring the sandwich, the feel of my kitchen, the scent of gardenias from the bush outside the window. But mostly I took the time to appreciate being me. Who I was had nothing to do with being a cop or a summoner or with who my friends were. It was far more intrinsic than any set of externals.

  Tunjen and a handful of grapes finished off the meal. I felt good, definitely better than I had since Rhyzkahl hit me with the rakkuhr virus. The ache to share with Mzatal threatened to take over, and I pushed it down, sealed it away. No point in going there.

  It worked. A bit.

  After I tucked my plate into the dishwasher, I realized I had no idea what to do next. There were plenty of things that needed to be dealt with, but nothing immediate and in my face.

  Get clean, I decided. When in doubt, shower.

  Once in the bathroom, I stripped, gazed at my reflection in the mirror. A patch of smooth skin between the ribs to the left of my sternum marked the place where Vsuhl had pierced. Technically, it wasn’t a scar at all, but rather a lack of one within the other scars. Yet it felt like one as it marred the lines of Mzatal’s sigil, left a gap in the flowing curves of his signature mark. I touched the spot, reflexively reached for him. I sensed him, even though he was in the demon realm, but what would have been a faint, tingling hum before was now rigid, cold silence. Why, Mzatal? It shouldn’t end like this. Not without a word.

  With a shuddering breath, I pushed away thoughts of what I couldn’t change right now, ran my hands over the other scars. Still the same.

  Except for one.

  I turned slowly away from the mirror, looked back over my shoulder at the reflection of the twelfth sigil, the one Szerain had altered. Then stared. I’d felt four cuts, nothing more, but he hadn’t simply added to the existing scar. He’d changed it completely. How was that possible? The angular rigidity of the original had been replaced by artistic curves and flourishes that spoke of delicate strength. But even that wasn’t enough for my World of Weirdness. It wasn’t even a scar anymore. It was more like an arcane tattoo—beautiful, captivating, and glowing sapphire in othersight.

  I twisted while I looked over my shoulder in the mirror and reached awkwardly for the altered scar—or whatever it was now. Smooth skin, a nearly imperceptible tingle. It didn’t feel wrong, arcanely or otherwise. But still—

  “Eilahn!” In a heartbeat she came through the door. “What did Szerain do?” I asked her, my voice shaking in a blend of anger tinged with fear. “Did he fucking mark me?”

  She laid her hand on the sigil. “I would not be here in peace had the kiraknikahl placed his mark upon you.”

  No, she wouldn’t. I allowed myself a bit of relief. “What then? Why is it a live sigil rather than a scar?” But the answer hit me before she could respond. “Because Szerain completed the process,” I breathed. “If Rhyzkahl had finished his torture ritual, all of the sigils would be like this, and I would be the Rowan bitch with arcanely glowing body art.”

  “You are correct. And Szerain saved you with this,” she said, lightly patting the sigil. “I do not know its full purpose, but without it, Kara Gillian would be no more.”

  And with that cheerful thought, she left me t
o my shower.

  • • •

  Half an hour later I was clean, Bryce was snoring in the chair, and I was still at loose ends. Fine then. When clean and in doubt, surf the Internet.

  I spent about an hour checking news sites and watching reports online, then shut the computer down and returned to the kitchen.

  Bryce shuffled in from the living room as I pondered the menu for the Kara’s Kafe dinner special of the day. I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Dude, you look worse than you did before you napped,” I noted helpfully. “You should go crash for real.”

  “Yeah. I will in a bit,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I need a shower and some food first.”

  “You’ve been through a lot of shit,” I said. “Always feels good to wash it off. And I speak from vast experience.” I gave him a smile. “I’ll get the food part handled. Go shower.”

  The dryer buzzed in the laundry room, and I headed that way. Mundane tasks. Dishes. Dinner. Laundry. Boring and comfortable. I knew the normalcy of it was an illusion, but I intended to cling to it while I could.

  I dumped the dryer contents into a basket, hefted it, and returned to the kitchen. I could fold while I figured out what to cook. Yet when I returned I saw Bryce staring out the window, still unshowered, and with a troubled expression on his face.

  A glance out the window showed nothing but my backyard in the late evening light. I plunked the basket onto the table. “Bryce? You okay?”

  He turned, leaned back against the counter. “Did you see what they’re saying on the news about the plantation incident?” he asked. “Or rather, what they’re not saying.”

  I nodded. “The official line is that it was a big fire with several suspected dead, and that a body resembling James Macklin Farouche was found at the scene although ID has not yet been confirmed.” I pulled out a towel and started folding. “Investigations are already ramping up, but I doubt you’ll be seeing any stories on the ten o’clock news about a wizard calling lightning, especially since the eyewitnesses have so many conflicting stories.” I shrugged. “People always find a way to explain weird shit and make it something rational. And with everything from ‘alien invasion’ to ‘secret government experiment conspiracies’ popping up on the Internet, anyone who tells the truth about what happened will be labeled a nutjob and dismissed.”