Demon Born Magic (Ella Grey Series Book 3)

by Jayne Faith

He shook his head. “That’s one area where we’re different. How’d that come about, anyway?”

  I lifted my hands, looking down at my arms. I was wearing long sleeves, so the faint silvery sigils weren’t visible. “I don’t know. It’s something to do with the markings on my arms. They appeared after I, uh, resurrected.”

  I winced. Resurrected? I didn’t intend to sound so self-important, but I still wasn’t completely sure how to describe my returned-from-death experience without using words that seemed loaded with drama.

  “How did it happen?” he asked. “The first time. How did you start channeling the ley line magic?”

  “I brought my arms together in the in-between, and the sigils were glowing. I read them, somehow. It was almost like something else took over. Something that understood the language of the sigils. My voice didn’t sound like mine.” My brows pinched as I recalled how disconnected I’d felt. “You said reapers don’t wield magic. So it wasn’t my reaper taking control?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” he said, but he sounded hesitant.

  “What?” I watched him.

  “The name your reaper gave,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since you told me. When you said it, I assumed it was a lie, that your reaper was trying to protect himself.”

  Trepidation crept through me. “What do you mean? Do you—did you—know Xaphan?” I asked.

  “Xaphan is kind of a legend among reapers,” he said. “He was a fallen angel, cast out of heaven to become one of the first high-ranking demons. But he had a reputation for stirring up chaos, and he pissed off the other fallen angels so much they killed him, supposedly.”

  My chest felt too tight all of a sudden. “Demons? I thought reapers were angels of death.”

  Rogan took one hand off the wheel, leveled it, and then tilted it from side to side. “Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I demanded. “Am I possessed by a reaper or a demon?”

  He glanced at me with a bemused expression. “Humans. So bent on labeling and categorizing.” He gave a little chuckle.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I’m freaking out here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “What do you think a demon is?”

  I blinked a few times. “I know what demons are. They’re the things that I used to trap when I was on Patrol.”

  “That’s just the name humans gave the creatures that come through the Rips,” he said. “Those winged creatures didn’t fly out with nametags on them that read: Hello, I’m a demon. A demon in the old sense, the context I’m talking about, is the same thing as a fallen angel.”

  I stared out the windshield, my eyes glazed. We’d made it to the highway, but not yet reached the altitude where the high desert turned to mountains and evergreens. It was overcast, and miniscule particles of snow had begun to dust the pavement and further gray out the scenery.

  “Okay. So clear this up for me. Are the winged creatures, the ones that come through rips, related at all to angels of death?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But only in the sense that a housecat is related to a lion of the Serengeti. For the sake of semantics and the preservation of your sanity, let’s just stick with ‘reaper’ or ‘angel of death’ when we’re talking about—you know.” He pointed back and forth between us a couple of times.

  I felt a little sick. I gave my head a shake, but that only made the reeling sensation worse. “Back to Xaphan. You think my reaper could be the real Xaphan?”

  “I’m starting to think it’s possible. It would explain your ability to use the magic of the in-between. Satan and the other originals have abilities beyond the run-of-the-mill reapers like me.”

  “I didn’t realize there were different categories of reapers. Classes? Levels?” I puffed my cheeks, blowing out a long breath. “I think you’d better start at the beginning. School me on reapers, Rogan. I want to know everything.”

  “Hmm . . . Well, to start, new reapers rarely come into being. Most of us have existed for a very long time, by your standards.”

  “Who creates them?” I interrupted before he could really get rolling.

  “Like I said, the original fallen angels—Satan and crew—have the power to reap, among other things. But that’s not what they wanted to do all day apparently, so they gifted lower demons with the ability to do this work.”

  “So you started your existence as a lower demon?” I asked.

  “Presumably, but I don’t remember anything from that time.”

  “Okay, some demons received reaper powers to do the dirty work for fallen angels, got it,” I said. “What else?”

  “Well, becoming a reaper means getting permanently housed in the in-between, as you call it. Lowly reapers can’t move between realms like the angels of death, or like you and I can go from here to the in-between. Reapers are stuck in one realm.”

  “But Xaphan was a fallen angel turned angel of death, so he could move between realms, right? Because he was one of the big alpha angels?”

  “Exactly. Now you’re getting the distinction.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, but please go on.”

  “Reapers, the ones who are worker bees like I was, are solitary creatures. It’s almost as if we repel each other. I think it has something to do with distributing us in a way that’s most efficient for reaping souls.”

  “Did you ever keep a soul instead of setting it free?” I asked.

  He cocked his head and frowned. “I don’t think I’d be able to, even if I wanted to. I don’t recall ever having the desire to try.”

  A shiver trickled over my back. I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that.

  “So you just wander around in the gray mist alone for eternity, cutting souls loose every so often?”

  He let up on the gas to slow down as the highway began to make tighter curves, snaking through a steep canyon alongside the North Fork of the Payette River.

  “I know it sounds strange to a human, but it’s what reapers are made to do, and it’s the only thing we desire,” he said. “In fact, reapers don’t really have desires.”

  I peered at him, trying to imagine living that way. Not longing for people or love or money or power or peace, or any of the other things that seemed to drive humans.

  “This must be incredibly strange for you, then,” I said. “Living in this human world.”

  He sighed heavily. “You can’t even imagine. But remember, I had time to learn while Rogan and I still shared this body, and I’ve had decades here to adjust since then.”

  “It all probably seems very messy and busy, and—” I waved a hand around, searching for the right word. “I don’t know, emotional.”

  “Yes,” he said. “This is an extremely physical world, as well as a very spiritually tumultuous one. So many longings and struggles.”

  I sank into my seat a little farther and watched the snow drift down in slow motion. This was some heavy shit.

  “I guess that explains why you’re not much of a people person,” I said.

  He gave a short laugh. “What makes you say that?”

  “You don’t seem interested in creating actual bonds with others. I know there’s a practical reason for it, that you’re trying to avoid notice, but it goes beyond that. You don’t need it the way most humans do. I’m sure the few people you interact with pick up on that lack of interest, even if they can’t quite put their finger on it.”

  “I’ve had relationships,” he said. His slight emphasis on the last word suggested he meant the romantic variety.

  “You have?” That little revelation bumped me off balance.

  He snorted. “Are you really so surprised? I’ve been in a human body for over half a century.”

  “I just . . . I don’t know, assumed that you wouldn’t have any interest in that aspect of the human experience,” I said, trying not to sound ruffled.

  “They were brief, I admit,” he said.

  My pulse
thumped as I contemplated that in silence for a few seconds. Rogan suddenly seemed a whole lot more human, for lack of a better word. There was a heart beating in that chest. A handsome face with watchful eyes. A well-built body that felt the pull of mortal desires. I blinked hard, cutting off that train of thought.

  “Back to topic of the passionless lives of reapers.” I paused, afraid I already knew the answer to the question I wanted to ask. “Is there anything, I mean anything, that I could offer my reaper in return for not eating the last little nugget of my soul?”

  It was hard not to hunch forward and curl around myself whenever I remembered that only a very small amount of my soul remained. The fragility of the situation felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff that fell away into nothing. So naturally I avoided the thought as much as possible.

  “Normally, I would say no,” Rogan said. “Because as I said, reapers don’t really have desires. But if your reaper is indeed Xaphan, it may be different. I don’t know for sure.”

  “There is something my reaper covets,” I said. I peered at him closely, watching for any reaction as I spoke. I hadn’t really talked about the cloud of souls that appeared in my left hand whenever I reaped. Even though I hadn’t created it, and so far had resisted adding to it, I somehow felt ashamed of it. “The few times I’ve reaped souls, I’ve had to fight the temptation to add them to Xaphan’s collection instead of freeing them.”

  His hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

  “Collection?” he asked. He kept his voice carefully neutral.

  “It’s a black cloud that appears in my left hand, with tiny lights in it,” I said, feeling slightly sick just talking about it. “The lights are trapped souls.”

  His eyes on the road, he grunted a noncommittal sound.

  “Does that give you any better idea about whether this reaper is the real Xaphan?”

  He finally glanced at me. “I’d say the possibility is very good.”

  The snow had started coming down thicker, and Rogan switched on the windshield wipers. The sky was completely overcast, the clouds so dense there wasn’t even a faint disc of light to indicate where the sun was. For a few minutes, the rubbery swish of the wiper blades and Loki’s soft snoring in the back seat were the only sounds in the Jeep.

  The road was empty ahead of us and behind, and we’d passed few vehicles since we’d hit the mountains. I knew the stretch of highway between Boise and McCall well, and we were a few miles from the halfway point. The road curved tightly along the river in this section, at times so close to the edge of the drop-off there was little more than a metal guardrail and a couple of feet of dirt to keep cars from plunging into the river below.

  Rogan slowed as we approached a short arched concrete bridge that would take us to the other side of the canyon.

  Something moved off to the side of the bridge. A huge, mottled face came into view.

  Rogan slammed on the brakes.

  “Oh damn, I was afraid of this,” he ground out as the back of the Jeep fishtailed.

  “What the hell is that?” My voice rose in alarm as I watched the thick, lumpy form of a creature climb up from the river and lumber over to the road, blocking entry to the bridge.

  Loki started barking like a maniac.

  The creature had rheumy eyes as big as dinner plates, and its legs were like two solid columns of greenish-brown flesh. It lifted a foot, brought it down in a stomp that shook the ground, and then turned its face to the sky and roared.

  “Bridge troll,” Rogan said grimly, throwing the Jeep into park.

  Chapter 8

  I FELT THE prickle of magic as Rogan gathered his power.

  “Trolls are slow and dim-witted but strong and extremely determined,” he said, his words hurried and clipped. “They draw their strength from eating people with magical ability, and they can only be defeated by magical means. Stay here.”

  He jumped out of the Jeep and slammed the door just as the troll raised his fists and then smashed them down onto the road like a giant angry toddler throwing a tantrum. Spittle flew from his mouth as he hollered again.

  Like hell I was going to stay in the car.

  I reached for my whip and got out, letting the weapon unfurl onto the snow-dusted asphalt. I rolled my wrist around, warming it up, as I watched Rogan.

  My mother had taught me about the dangers of various supernatural creatures when I was young, but damned if I could remember anything about trolls beyond their likely habitats—which obviously included the undersides of bridges—and the fact that they were nearly impossible to kill even with the strongest magic. You could defeat them by sneaking past their post, which was easy if they were sleeping. Or you had to get them to back down. Once they retreated to their hidey-holes, you were safe to pass.

  But they were so vanishingly rare, I’d never been totally convinced of their existence.

  Rogan had his hands up, and he was moving them in patterns in the air, weaving strands of magic. Power zipped outward, smacking into the troll’s nose. He balked as if he’d been punched in the face. He shook his massive shaggy head but stayed on his feet.

  The creature took a lumbering step forward and swiped out a hand, trying to grab for Rogan. The troll wouldn’t move far from where he stood—his deepest instinct was to block our passage because if we made it onto the bridge we were almost as good as home free and he wouldn’t be able to pursue us.

  Rogan was being careful to stay clear of the troll’s long arms, but pummeling the creature with magic from several yards away didn’t seem to be having much effect.

  “Get closer,” I yelled. I flicked my whip, and it popped loudly. “I’ll cover you if he tries that again.”

  Rogan kept his eyes on the troll. “Get back in the car, Ella!”

  “C’mon, I’ve got you!”

  I could feel that Rogan was powering up, reaching for everything he had. He inched forward. I tensed, ready to strike out at the troll’s thick arms, and stayed even with Rogan.

  The troll didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. Maybe being cut off from my magic kept me off his radar. Normals were usually of little interest to trolls.

  “On three,” Rogan called. “One, two, three!”

  He sprinted forward, and I was right there with him. He planted his feet and hurled magic. The troll started to reach out with one thick arm, but I snapped my whip hard enough to draw a line of dark green blood across the creature’s wrist. Rogan launched another face blast at the troll. The creature threw his head back and jammed his fists into his closed eyes and started pitching blindly.

  “Back to the Jeep!” Rogan yelled. “We need to get past before his eyes recover!”

  I wheeled around to run, but mid-stride something clipped one of my ankles. I went sprawling onto the pavement, scraping up my hands. My whip slipped from my grip as I scrambled to right myself.

  I looked up and saw Rogan already at the car. His eyes went huge, and he started racing back toward me just as an enormous hand closed around my legs and yanked me up off the ground.

  I dangled upside-down, twisting and clawing at the troll’s hide.

  I heard Rogan yelling and swearing and felt the troll buffeting under the magical attack, but the creature’s grip on me was firm. I had a knife strapped to my ankle, but it was trapped under the troll’s fingers.

  The giant moved to the side of the bridge, aiming to take me down the bank. Once under the cover of the bridge, he’d eat me.

  I pummeled and scratched his fingers, but to no effect. When he turned to back down the steep incline leading to the river below, I swung and the side of my head cracked against concrete.

  I groaned into the blinding pain radiating over my skull as blackness crowded into my vision.

  No, no, don’t pass out.

  I wasn’t going to win a physical fight against the troll, even if I could get to my knife. The creature was too strong.

  Defeat with magic, defeat with magic.

  My head pounde
d with pain and panic.

  When the stars cleared from my vision, the troll had me under the bridge. The world swung dizzyingly as he flipped me upright and squeezed me in one big fist. I swung my arms wildly, trying to keep him from clamping them against my body with his other hand.

  When one fist grazed his shoulder, he let out a high-pitched screech. My swing had left a smoking track across his skin.

  My ring. That had to be what had caused the wound.

  His big stinking mouth stretched wide, revealing sharp front teeth and crushing molars the size of my head.

  I pulled off one of my charmed rings and hurled it into the smelly maw. It hit the back of his throat and he grunted. His grip loosened and I wiggled free, dropping to the rocky river bank below.

  Scrambling up the bank, I threw one last glance over my shoulder and saw the troll with both hands at his throat, eyes bulging, and making strangled noises. The charmed ring wasn’t big enough to choke him, but the magic in it must have been doing something in my favor.

  A tingling trickle began to pour into me. At first it felt delicious, like warm rays of sun after a long, dark winter. The sigils on my arms began to illuminate so intensely they shone through my sleeves. But the trickle rapidly swelled into a storm. The ley line magic.

  “Ella!” Rogan reached down for me.

  I tossed my arm up. He caught my hand and wrist and hauled me up over the lip of the bank.

  “My ring,” I ground out. “I threw one of my rings into the troll’s mouth. The magic is flooding in.”

  I gripped my head as the agonizing pressure began to take over every sense. The ley line magic was going to gut me or make me explode. Either way, I couldn’t survive its force.

  “Help me!” I don’t know if I said the words aloud or only screamed them in my mind.

  White light filled my eyes, and then the world dissolved away in a flash of exquisite pain.

  When consciousness returned, it was filled by a man’s grizzled face looming over me. He had a scraggly beard that looked like a tangle of steel wool and eyes of a blue so light they bordered on gray. A galaxy of stars seemed to swirl in his pupils, and my heart bumped at the sight as I realized what it signified.