Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Rowland, Diana

  He took a deeper breath then looked to me and laid his hand alongside my face. “I must work in the plexus for a time, beloved,” he said softly. “The Mraztur’s actions with the valve have had numerous repercussions in the flows. I must relieve Elofir, but I will be complete at sunset.”

  I kissed him lightly, nodded. “We’ll talk then.”

  Mzatal held my gaze for a heartbeat before inclining his head to me. He proceeded to the plexus while I went the other direction and made my way to Idris’s room on the level below.

  I paused in the doorway as a faint hint of nostalgia settled over me. Not much had changed since he’d last occupied it several months ago. Though I’d been in the process of recovering from Rhyzkahl’s torture, it had been a simpler time. The room suited Idris. Spacious and airy with a window wall overlooking the sea, and furnishings in varying shades of blue accented with silver. A scatter of books and papers topped his worktable, undisturbed since he’d been taken.

  He lay on his back atop the covers of his bed, left arm thrown over his eyes, and right knee cocked to the side. He wasn’t asleep though. The fingers of his right hand tapped on the bed in an uneven tempo, but I couldn’t tell if it was in frustration or impatience or something else entirely.

  I knocked lightly on the door frame. “Hey, dude.”

  He pulled his arm away from his eyes, looked toward the door. “Kara?” he asked, voice hoarse and raw.

  Moving into the room, I gave him a smile. “Yeah, it’s me. How you feeling?”

  He let out a humorless snort. “Like my insides are scrambled, and my head’s exploding.” One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Y’know . . . not too bad.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and peered at him. He looked like he’d been dragged through hell—which he had, now that I thought about it—but to my relief he didn’t have any of the damaged feel Paul radiated.

  “Well, Mzatal says you’re going to be fine,” I told him firmly. “You’ll be running the stairs in no time.” I smiled. “And I know you don’t want me to catch up to you in the shikvihr, right?”

  He gave a wry and somewhat pained smile. “Not much chance of that. Look.” He traced an unsteady sigil that fizzled out in about two seconds.

  I lightly smacked the back of his hand. “Then stop doing that. You need to rest. It’ll come back.” But then I rested my hand on his and sobered. “Idris . . . I’m so very sorry about your sister. The rest of your family is safe, though. We got your mom out, and she’s fine.”

  His hand clenched in the covers, and tension surged through him. “They didn’t have to do that,” he said, each word infused with a rage I’d never seen in him before. “They didn’t have to DO that.”

  “No, they didn’t,” I said, voice choked. “Idris, I’m so sorry.”

  Filled with pain and fury, his eyes went to mine. “Where is Aaron Asher?” he demanded, voice still hoarse but with a razor edge I’d never heard in him before. “Aaron Asher and Jerry Steiner.” His neck corded as he snarled the names out. “Do you know where they are?”

  “Kadir has Asher,” I told him. “Farouche is dead. Bryce killed him.” My eyes dropped to my hand resting on his fist. “There were a number of casualties and injured, but we spotted Jerry on a news clip.” I lifted my gaze to his pain-wracked face. “I swear to you, I’ll make sure you get him.”

  The black rage spilled away from him like water from a torn balloon. He let out his breath in a long and shaking exhalation, then he unclenched his hand and turned it over to take mine. “Thanks,” he murmured. He simply looked exhausted now, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to find some way to wipe away the dark circles beneath his eyes and smooth away the lines of grief and fear and anger. “Kadir won’t damage Asher,” he said after a moment, words beginning to slur. “Need summoners.”

  “Maybe he’ll just hurt him a lot,” I offered and got a short breathless laugh back. His eyelids were starting to lose the battle against gravity, though. “You should get some sleep,” I said, then smiled softly. “Glad to have you back.” Cousin, I added silently.

  “Yeah . . . good . . . back . . . home,” he mumbled as his eyes drifted closed.

  So many questions I had for him. About his work with the Mraztur, about what he did in Texas with Asher, and so much more. All on hold for a while. The same way I felt on hold until Mzatal and I could talk about our own issues.

  I sat with Idris for a few more minutes, until his breathing deepened and lines of stress in his face eased, then gently pulled my hand from his and crept from the room.

  • • •

  After that, I felt a need to move my body. I briefly debated going for a run, but a sluggish rain changed my mind. There were times I enjoyed running in the rain, but today wasn’t one of them.

  I finally settled on a long, steady swim in the glorious indoor natural rock pool. Once my muscles were the consistency of limp noodles, I sank into the hot springs basin beside it, traced a triple pygah to float above, and set it spinning. Sometimes I came here to think. This time I came to not think. I focused on breathing, the rush of the river falls below, and the melodic chattering hiss of the small waterfall that fed the pool. And it worked. I lost track of time and emerged feeling cleaner.

  Hair still damp, and dressed in a comfortable demon realm version of designer sweats, I made my way to one of Mzatal’s favorite places, the roof terrace. As always, when I stepped from the stairway into the spacious glassed conservatory, I felt as though I stood on top of the world. Two levels above that of the plexus, it commanded a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding area. Plants filled the space, none over chest high so as not to obstruct the view, and the soft, sweet scent of a variety of flowers filled the air.

  Rain slid down the glass in graceful rivulets, but a slash of blue sky to the west, far out over the sea, told me it would end soon. I made my way to the luxurious sitting area, intending to simply relax until sunset, a rare luxury these days.

  A brush of sound alerted me, and I turned to see Elofir step from the stairs. He no longer wore the sweat-soaked shirt, but it was still clear the past few hours in the plexus hadn’t been a walk in the park for him.

  Faruk darted up the stairs and held out a towel and a glass of tunjen for him. Elofir thanked the faas, took a long drink of the tunjen, mopped the sweat from his throat and neck, then gave me a smile.

  “Is the plexus all properly plexusy?” I asked with a return smile.

  He dropped into a broad chair so cushiony that it seemed he sank a foot into its embrace. “It is far from stable,” he said with a light grimace, “but Mzatal will work it until sunset, and then I will go back.”

  “Back to the plexus? Or your realm?”

  “The plexus,” he clarified. His gaze drifted toward the vibrant amethyst and emerald canopy of the grove to the south, and he looked briefly wistful. “It will likely be days before we return to my realm, though Michelle is more than ready. The node incident caused much instability.”

  I sat on a settee near him, tucked one leg underneath me. “Kadir looked pissed when he came through the node.”

  Elofir returned his attention to me, nodded. “Kadir is still . . . pissed,” he said. “He was here earlier. He seeks Mzatal when he is distressed.”

  “Mzatal hurt him when he called the lightning,” I said after a moment.

  But Elofir merely shook his head. “That injury was as nothing to him,” he told me. “Kadir bore no ill will over that. It is the node instability and disruption of the potency flows that has him angry and agitated. He is very . . . fastidious and exacting about the flows.”

  I considered these recently discovered aspects of Kadir the Creepy. None of them made him seem any less creepy, but they sure made it hard to get an honest feel for him. Capable of doling out unspeakable torment. Honorable to the point of rigidity concerning agreements—though
I had no doubt he would seek and exploit a loophole in a heartbeat. Some sort of wizardly genius with the flows and rituals. Champion of maintaining arcane stability of the demon realm. Loved by Fuzzykins, for fuck’s sake. Freaky-weird about pain. And the memory of the sight and sound of his burned thigh cracking when he crouched still gave me the heebie jeebies.

  “Mzatal almost killed Paul.” The words tumbled from me even though I’d intended to work up to the topic more gradually. “Almost killed all of us.” It was the first time I’d said it aloud.

  All trace of lightness drained from Elofir’s face. “Yes, he told me,” he said quietly. He wiped his face and neck one more time then set the towel aside. “He does not want it to happen again.”

  I dropped both feet to the floor and leaned forward. “Then how can I help him make sure it never happens again?”

  Elofir’s expression turned grim, and when he spoke, his words carried a foreboding resonance. “He will tell you he can prevent it. And it will be true.” He stood and moved to the southern glass doors, opened them and stepped out onto the expansive open terrace despite the persistent weak drizzle. “He can build impenetrable walls,” he continued. “Nothing gets through them. In or out.”

  I stood and followed him, frowned at his back. “Like when he shut me out? That’s how he controls it?” I asked with growing dismay. “By shutting everyone out?”

  “Yes. Being open means being open to the anger as well as all else. He chose to withdraw eons ago when he could no longer control it.” He turned back to me. A deep sadness filled his eyes. “He lived thus for a very long time. Formidable, uncompromising, devious, though never speaking an untruth. Never wantonly cruel, but hard. Cold.”

  “Why did he change?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  Elofir gave a slight nod as he read it from me. “Idris. You.” He exhaled, wiped a hand over his eyes, flicked rain away. “The two of you found a hairline crack in his wall, broke him open. Kara, it has been over two thousand years since he and I have had any cooperative undertakings outside of the Conclave or anomaly control.”

  Two thousand years. Closed off and alone for all that time? I couldn’t comprehend it.

  I walked out to the terrace, looked out at the churning sea, then brought my gaze to the grove. Two thousand years meant nothing to it. A week, a day, an eon—none of it mattered. It was the grove. It existed. It simply was.

  Turning, I focused on the tapering flat-topped pillar of polished basalt atop a rise on the inland side of the palace. To culminate all eleven rings of a full shikvihr atop the pillar was the rare crowning glory of accomplishment for a summoner. That column represented why I was in the demon realm at all. To train. To complete the shikvihr. To become strong enough and competent enough to protect myself and everyone I loved.

  But if Mzatal kept me walled out, could I remain here as his student?

  I pivoted back to Elofir. “Do you think he can learn to control it without having to close everyone out?”

  He crouched and brushed his palm across a cluster of azure flowers, set them toning like delicate wind chimes. “He carries a deep anger, always has,” he said. “Long ago it would flash and then pass.” He glanced to me. “We were close then. But after he created the blades, it would flash . . . and not pass.” He shook his head. “It was as if the blades would not allow him to bury the anger again. He would not consider relinquishing them, nor would he live without control, and so he chose the terrible alternative.”

  “To close off and shut everything in and everyone out,” I supplied, inwardly reeling.

  And yet, if he remained open to me—was that what Rhyzkahl meant when he told Mzatal I would be his downfall? I lifted my hand to one of the floating sigils that glimmered above the enclosing basalt parapet, felt its meaning and purpose. Sentinel.

  “I can’t train with him if he keeps me shut out,” I said, voice catching. I knew that in my essence. And it wasn’t because of some lovesick longing. I wouldn’t be able to train with him because I’d be grieving the loss of Mzatal. He wouldn’t be him anymore.

  I dropped my hand to my side. “But he said we’d discuss it.”

  Elofir nodded. “That in itself is unprecedented.” He paused, face shadowing. “He is close to withdrawing fully, because of Paul and the rest of it. So close.” He met my eyes. “But he has not.”

  “He’s part of the posse now,” I told him with a slight smile. “Not sure we’d let him withdraw.”

  It took him a second to read the meaning behind “posse,” but then he smiled. “For selfish reasons, I do hope that is the case.”

  “Selfish reasons?”

  He let out a sigh. “I lose him as well when he withdraws,” he told me. “Even after several months I am still shocked when he names me ghastuk—friend—as he did long ago. I do not want to lose that again.”

  The simple admission touched me—that a demonic lord could crave and treasure a simple thing like friendship.

  “You won’t lose him,” I stated. “I’ll make sure of it.” My gaze went to the grove. “Lord Elofir, would you excuse me? I have some thinking to do.”

  He leaned in and kissed my forehead. “Go.”

  With a parting smile, I hurried down the stairs.

  Chapter 47

  I found Eilahn in the central atrium below the mezzanines along with Gestamar, Faruk, Wuki, Dakdak, and a half dozen other demons, all crouched around an elaborate arrangement of blankets and bedding. A kittenless Fuzzykins held court from atop the pile like a proud and fierce queen, unruffled while demons cuddled and fussed over her newborns. Surely it was too soon to handle the babies? But what did I know.

  Gestamar held one of the tiny kittens cradled oh-so-very gently in his clawed hand while he crooned softly to it. The two ilius coiled around another—apparently not feeding on its essence or anything of that nature, since I rather imagined Eilahn would protest.

  Faruk zipped up to me, thrust a soft, warm ball of fluff into my hands before I could protest. “Fillion,” she said, then returned to do homage to Fuzzykins.

  I stared down at the tiny wriggling kitten in my hands, a feline that wasn’t hissing, growling, scratching, or hating me. Not that it had much to work with, eyes closed and barely able to scrabble. I cupped it in my palm, gently stroked its orange and white fur with a finger. Maybe Bryce’s suggestion of handling a kitten from early on really would work. Such a trivial consideration in the grand scheme of things, but it felt monumental to me in that moment.

  My grove-sense tingled with an activation—Kadir, I noted as I nuzzled the kitten and made goofy noises at it. He was headed to the Little Waterfall, I had no doubt. Yet a couple of minutes later a ripple of movement went through the demons, as if they’d all heard something strange, and within the span of about five seconds every demon with a kitten settled it beside Fuzzykins and scattered, leaving only Eilahn and me. Even big and scary Gestamar quickly and soundlessly retreated down a corridor.

  Kadir strode in a heartbeat later, which explained the sudden exodus. I quickly set Fillion with the others as I pulled a trickle of grove power to shield my thoughts. I stood and opened my mouth to demand what he was doing, then closed it. No way would Kadir enter any part of Mzatal’s realm without explicit permission. Which means Mzatal invited him here. Which also meant the need was surely dire.

  Fuzzykins mrowed at him, like a Hey! Good to see you! Crazy cat.

  The androgynous Kadir glanced my way, then paused and scrutinized the air slightly to the right of me, nostrils flaring. He angled his head, lips parted, in an expression I finally concluded to be burning curiosity. “The rakkuhr, How did you clear—” he began, then looked sharply toward the stairs, turned and bounded up.

  I followed quickly, though not to the point of running, caught up to him as he stood waiting at the entrance to Mzatal’s level. There was no physical barrier betwee
n the stairs and the corridor, but demonic lord protocol backed by a number of potent wards served even better.

  I took a perverse joy in stepping around him just as Mzatal exited Paul’s room, his face unreadable and lined with stress. Without a glance, Mzatal swept past me to engage in a hasty, tension-filled exchange with Kadir. Terms of agreement, I gathered, but so quickly set that even with the grove as translator I could only get the bare gist. Assessment. Heal if at all possible. Do no harm. I had no idea what the payment terms were.

  Kadir sauntered past me and to Paul’s room while Mzatal remained where he was, back to me, hands in fists at his sides.

  “Paul is dying,” Mzatal said, his voice resonant and remarkably controlled.

  Sick fear tightened my chest. Not Paul. Not that sweet, brilliant man. Tears sprang to my eyes at the thought of never hearing his quick laugh again.

  I moved to face Mzatal, seized his head in my hands, and forced him to look at me. “No! Paul needs you, needs to feel you here.” My heart ached for Mzatal, and I understood the desire, the need to separate himself from it all, but I couldn’t allow it. I stroked a thumb over his cheek, much the same as he often did to me. “I need you, beloved,” I said, voice gentling a bit. “You must not close us out.”

  His face like stone, he reached up and gripped my wrists. I didn’t need a mental link to know he fully intended to move my hands and turn away. But instead he met my eyes and went still.

  “Mzatal,” I murmured as I pushed through the shrouded connection to touch him. I can help you. Pain shared is pain halved. “I need you, too.”

  He closed his eyes and drew a long slow breath. As he exhaled, I felt him, as though he’d opened a crack in his impenetrable wall. He released my wrists, gathered me to him and tucked his head close beside mine. “Zharkat.”