Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Diana Rowland

  “You do that,” I said, unable to keep a smile off my face at her enthusiasm. Paul would have his hands full if she drafted him into her Excessive Decorations Committee, yet I found it awfully charming that she’d taken the young man under her wing.

  Her expression became grave, and she laid her hand on my arm. “I have a deeply serious request.”

  Anxiety spiked. “What is it?”

  “There are many items I require for the comfort of Fuzzykins in her gravid state,” she told me. “I cannot leave you to acquire them. Will you accompany me to the pet supply store?”

  The look of delight and hopeful pleading in her eyes shot down any possible argument I might have mustered. “Sure,” I said with a sigh. “Why the hell not?”

  “Excellent!” she all but squealed. “I will return at once so that we may depart!” With that, she ran off toward the woods, “bumper” in hand, and I abruptly had a weird vision of a secret hoard of Earth treasures in a hollow tree, and the bumper in a place of honor between a corncob holder and a losing lottery ticket.

  “I need to shower first!” I called after her, but she was already lost amidst the trees. I shrugged and headed inside, doing my best to shut out the garish mental image of the porch festooned in red, white and blue.

  Chapter 27

  After half an hour in the pet store with Eilahn I began to look back fondly on my last visit to the dentist.

  More toys. Treats. A special blanket. A cat bed—selected only after Eilahn poked, prodded, sniffed, and rubbed her face against every variety available. Brushes and combs—and I had to seize her arm to keep her from trying them out. By the time she trundled her shopping cart down the food aisle I was ready to snap.

  “Eilahn, here’s cat food,” I said with a slightly manic smile as I grabbed the first bag available. “It’s a big bag! We won’t have to shop again for ages. It’s even on sale!”

  She looked over at me with a very serious expression. “I will get organic Kitty Cuisine Niblets for Fuzzykins,” she informed me primly. “She is eating for seven and superior quality nutrition is critical.”

  “Seven?!” I released the bag and stared at her, aghast. “Wait, there’ll be six copies of her running around, glaring and hissing at me?”

  “Yes! Is it not wonderful?” she exclaimed, beaming. “I am still deciding on the names.”

  My horror increased. “Are you planning on keeping them all?” I shook my head frantically. “No no no. You have to find homes for them.”

  Her lovely brow furrowed. “I would not send them away if they do not want to go.” She frowned. “That would be barbaric.” Then she lifted her chin. “Whether they choose to go or remain, they need names.”

  “Call them all Fred,” I suggested with a glower as we continued down the aisle.

  “As they only have limited telepathic communication, that would be extremely confusing for them,” she stated as if lecturing a three-year-old. “Names are special. Unique.”

  I groaned. “Telepathic . . .” I shook my head to rid it of the horrifying concept. “You’re telling me that Fuzzykins is okay with being called Fuzzykins?”

  “Certainly!” She gave me a look as if wondering whether I suffered from some form of mental disorder. “I would not speak a name for her that brought her distress.”

  I was saved from more talk of telepathic cats by the ringing of my phone. A Beaulac PD number. “Kara Gillian,” I answered.

  “Hey, Gillian, it’s Marcel Boudreaux,” the familiar nasal voice said. “You busy right now?”

  “Nope, whatcha got?” I said. Eagerly. Malfunctioning stop light? Cockroach invasion? Crowd control at a 90%-off shoe sale? Anything to get out of this store.

  “Got a detective here from St. Long sheriff’s office with some questions about one of your old cases.”

  “Yeah, I can come by,” I said. “I’m only about five minutes away.”

  “See you in five then,” he replied and hung up.

  “Okay, enough cat toys, Eilahn,” I told her. “Need to go to the PD.”

  She balanced a large box atop the rest of her haul. “A fresh water fountain is not a toy,” she lectured. “It is for optimal health, well-being, and happiness.” She indicated the words on the box.

  I felt a twitch forming in my left eye. “Fine. Let’s get it and go.”

  To my relief she headed for the check out. As soon as she was done I jogged to the car and popped the trunk open, while she proceeded at a more leisurely pace.

  “You seem distressed,” she said as she carefully tucked the fountain, cat bed, food, toys, and all the other paraphernalia into the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?” She closed the trunk and gave me a calm smile, though I caught the wicked humor in her eyes.

  Yep, my demon bodyguard was a smartass.

  I decided I wouldn’t dignify that with a reply and climbed into the driver’s seat. I was even nice and waited for her to get in the car before I drove off.

  • • •

  * * *

  • • •

  There was no street parking to be found, and the visitor’s lot was full, so I finally cheated and found a place in the far corner of the detective’s lot. To be safe, though, I quickly traced an aversion ward on the hood, just in case anyone decided to ticket or tow it.

  Eilahn lingered in the foyer while I headed through the familiar Investigations door. A sharp twinge of nostalgia went through me as I walked down the hall with its stained tiles and cheap wood paneling and ever-present scent of burnt coffee.

  My former sergeant, Cory Crawford, wasn’t in his office. A vaguely familiar young man earnestly typed away at his laptop in the closet-sized room that used to be mine. He’d been a road cop, I realized as I passed by. Must have snagged the promotion when I left.

  Yet as soon as I passed the open doorway I had to stop and take a several deep breaths. I wasn’t a cop anymore. I’d known it before, but now the truth of it hit me hard in the gut. Not a cop. I wasn’t really a consultant for the FBI either. What the hell was I now? A summoner? That didn’t adequately describe it. Not anymore.

  Squaring my shoulders, I continued on to Boudreaux’s office. He was on his phone, but when he saw me he covered the mouthpiece and said, “Interview three,” with a jerk of his head in the direction of the interview rooms.

  I nodded and continued to the side corridor that housed the various interview rooms. The first two rooms were dark, their doors open. The third, at the end of the hall, was lit and the door ajar. I headed to it and peered in, even as a sudden hard shove in the middle of my back propelled me fully into the room.

  I let out a startled yelp and stumbled forward as the door closed solidly behind me, but then I registered the other occupant of the room. Gritting my teeth, I recovered and tugged my jacket straight.

  “Got all the cops under your thumb?” I asked Farouche with a tight smile.

  Impeccably dressed in an obviously high quality steel-grey suit, dark shirt, and pale blue-patterned tie, he stood with the fingertips of one hand lightly resting on the table, silver cufflinks glinting at his wrist as he regarded me. “They are eager to accommodate me,” he replied mildly.

  “Must be boring to always have things go your way,” I said with a mock-tragic sigh. “No surprises. No adventure.”

  He straightened and adjusted his cuffs, flicked a miniscule bit of dust from his lapel. An elegant band of gold and diamonds rested on the ring finger of his left hand, and I found myself weirdly surprised that he still wore his wedding ring. I knew about the cancer center and his dedication to the search for his abducted daughter, but this clear sign of devotion to his deceased wife struck me on a different level. A sentimental monster?

  “How odd,” he said as he took a step toward me. “I’ve always found it to be exhilarating.” He took another step closer, but when I didn’t flinch or back away his brows drew together, and a whisper of tension creased the skin around his eyes.

  With a small impatient sigh, I folded
my arms over my chest and gave him a bland look. “Is there something you wanted to say to me?”

  A look of true bafflement came over his face, and I knew damn well it was because I wasn’t sweating in fear and jumping to do his bidding.

  “What have you done?” he murmured, eyes searching over me as if trying to find whatever hidden trick I was using.

  Fiendish glee soared through me, but I widened my eyes and brought my hands to my mouth in mock dismay. “Oh no! Was I supposed to call you?” I exclaimed with great drama. “I’ve been sitting by my phone waiting for you to call me!” I fluttered my hands. “Oh my goodness, what a faux pas!” I gave him an innocent look even though fury roiled through me. He was pulling his shit on cops and friends, and that was way beyond the pale.

  Yet he didn’t seem to fully hear my words. Feet shifting ever so slightly, his expression flickered for a brief instant in a weird mix of confusion, worry, and anxiety.

  A second later it hit me. He’s not in control. And that’s completely unfamiliar territory. Payback’s a bitch, motherfucker.

  “It was him . . . Mah zahtal,” Farouche breathed, mispronouncing the name, though it didn’t seem to be intentional. And the Oh shit in his eyes might as well have been written in neon.

  I laughed low, and I sang a line from “My Boyfriend’s Back.”

  Uncertain and shaken—though it was clear he fought to keep it hidden—he shot a look to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room and flicked his hand to the door. A few seconds later it opened, and he departed without another word.

  Now that he was gone, my pulse hammered at the insanely close call. I counted to five then moved to the door and peered out, while keeping a very sharp eye out for any of Farouche’s cronies.

  Instead I saw Eilahn bound around the corner, consternation on her face that shifted to stark relief as she saw me in one piece.

  Still she pulled me fully into the hallway, raked an assessing gaze over me then peered hard into my eyes before relaxing. “I saw the ginger one and him as they departed,” she told me with a low growl beneath her words. “Forgive me. I did not expect a threat in this place.”

  “No reason for you to,” I reassured her. “And you can’t ride my ass everywhere. I figure you’d have known if I was in any real danger.” I went on to relate everything that happened.

  “You sang to him?” Her brow puckered. “Is this a traditional means of taunting?”

  “Well, sort of.” I paused to consider. “But it depends on the song. ‘We Are the Champions’ is certainly better than ‘Muskrat Love.’” Then again, the latter would probably be more effective as torture. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. “I’ll educate you on the way home.”

  • • •

  Before we left the station I stopped by Boudreaux’s office to find out what he knew about Farouche and why he set me up to be in a room with the man. As much as Boudreaux and I failed to get along, I nevertheless knew in my gut that he wouldn’t deliberately fuck me over. Had Farouche put the fear whammy on him?

  Yet, if anything, it turned out to be the opposite. Farouche had wanted to surprise me with a job offer, Boudreaux told me, eyes near glowing with an eager desire to please Farouche. It hadn’t occurred to him to question the scenario, because this was how Farouche had wanted to meet with me.

  I extricated myself from the weird conversation and left the station with Eilahn. “Bryce was right. It’s not just fear,” I said after several minutes of brooding and driving. “He can also lay on the charisma and make people devoted and loyal.” I shuddered. “I’m not sure which one scares me more.”

  “He is a very dangerous man,” Eilahn muttered.

  I continued on home in complete agreement.

  Chapter 28

  Mzatal was still deeply involved on the mini-nexus when we returned home, and I decided to have Eilahn tell him about my encounter with Farouche while I summoned Steeev.

  Paul and Bryce weren’t in the common areas when I returned to the house. I scrawled “do not disturb” on a sticky note and slapped it on the basement door, then poured a big glass of tunjen and headed down. It felt both weird and good to perform a summoning in the middle of the day with utter confidence. A year ago—hell, a few months ago—I would’ve balked at the mere idea due to the lack of lunar influence and the extra difficulty that posed. Training with Mzatal had stripped all that nonsense away, and I’d learned how to adapt and compensate for different summoning conditions.

  I set the tunjen aside and got to work. The storage diagram was nicely topped off, and it took only about fifteen minutes to change the existing ritual diagram to the parameters for a syraza. I checked and rechecked the sigils, bindings, and power flows, tapped the storage diagram, and began.

  I spoke the name “Steeev” as the invocation to call the syraza, confident and calm. I knew I had a successful summoning. It felt right. Only once did I encounter a shift in the currents of power as I formed the portal, but I smoothly adjusted the anchors and dealt with the shift with no further issues, and silently thanked the hundreds of hours of practice Mzatal had insisted I do.

  The syraza arrived with a jolting pull in the potency flows. I grounded and anchored the power, then looked up to see him, kneeling and breathing hard, in the center of the diagram.

  “Steeev,” I said, “I apologize for summoning you without warning.”

  He lifted his head. “Is . . .” He paused as though testing his ability to speak. “Is there a problem with the qaztahl?”

  “No!” I said quickly. “No, Mzatal is well.” Of course that would be his first assumption, especially since, according to Zack, Steeev had never been summoned before. “I need a favor from you,” I continued, “but I want to discuss it with you first since it’s a big one. Would you like tunjen?”

  Steeev blinked several times, still trying to get his bearings. “Tunjen. Yes.” He attempted to rise then apparently thought better of it. “What favor, Kara Gillian?” he asked as he sank back into a kneel-sit. “When my body moves where my mind wills, perhaps I will be able to accommodate.” He chimed in laughter. “Unless I am forever in the swirling state.”

  I retrieved the glass of tunjen I’d brought downstairs and pressed it into his hand. “It fades, I promise,” I assured him with a smile, then crouched before him. “Here’s the favor. I need protection for a dear friend of mine. She’s Zakaar’s lover too, and carries his child.”

  Steeev drained the cup then looked at me, head angled slightly to one side. “Jill Faciane. Zakaar does not protect her?”

  “He does as much as he can, but he also has a duty to Szerain.” I took a few minutes to explain our current situation, including the body dump and the threat to Jill. “I’d rather she be overprotected than have something happen to her.”

  Steeev stretched his wings wide, then folded them and stood. “Mzatal has agreed to this?” He put on a syraza version of a scowl, tucked his hands behind his back and lifted his chin in a surprisingly excellent mimicry of Mzatal. “Or does he protest?”

  I laughed. “He has agreed to this.”

  The syraza let his Mzatal impression go, chimed softly. “For what span of time?” He took a deep breath, then stiffened and curled his lips back. “What is that smell?”

  I let out a cough of laughter at his reaction. “The span of time would be at least until the baby is born. A month or two,” I said. “The unpleasant smell is likely hydrocarbons, and the savory smell is gumbo. Crawfish gumbo. It’s pretty good.”

  “It has been long since I have seen a human babe.” He bared his teeth in a syraza smile, chiming with amusement. “Noisy and smelly and ear-pulling.”

  “They do grow out of that—most of the time.” My amusement faded. Now came the tricky part. “Here’s the deal,” I said, all seriousness now. “I haven’t yet talked to Jill about you, or about having a guardian at all. First, because I know her, and if I asked before she met you, it’d be too easy for her to say No.” I paused, i
nclined my head to him. “And second, I didn’t want to bring it up with her until I knew your decision.”

  “The decision cannot be made without her agreement,” he stated. “That said, I am not opposed and, in not being opposed, am indeed willing—if she is willing—to accept guardianship.” He tilted his head, peered at me. “On the condition that she is at least marginally pleasant.”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” I said, relieved. I gestured grandly to the raggedy basement stairs. “Come upstairs and see my demesne.”

  “Lead on, Kara Gillian,” he announced with a teeth-baring smile. “I will wobble and teeter along behind.”

  “You can lean on me if you wish,” I offered.

  He gave a snort-chime. “The great guardian arrives, leaning heavily upon the summoner. It does not serve. No, no. Not at all.”

  “Then you’d best stop your whining,” I advised with a grin as I led the way.

  Steeev followed, chime-muttering. Once upstairs, I gave him a quick rundown of the layout of the house and property. “Jill likes her privacy, so she’s staying in a mobile home at the side of the house,” I explained as we entered the kitchen.

  Bryce was at the table—papers and notes in front of him that I figured were probably stuff for his surveillance camera proposal. He glanced up as we entered, blinked in surprise at the sight of a syraza.

  Steeev chimed. “Fair greetings, Bryyyce.”

  Bryce’s expression cleared, and he chuckled. “Steeev. You’re the only one who drawls my name out like that. Good to see you again.”

  “Steeev will be sticking around for a while as Jill’s guardian,” I told Bryce. “That is, if we can get it through her stubborn head that she needs one.”

  Bryce looked from me to Steeev then back to me. “I get it. Like Eilahn.” He nodded. “Jill needs that, especially now.”

  “We’re about to let her know she’s always wanted one,” I said, then continued out to the back porch.