Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian)

by Diana Rowland

He regarded me, eyes unveiled and ancient. “Any inferences that you make from that are yours, but I can’t go there.” He lifted his hand, middle finger extended, but I didn’t take offense. This was his way to signal that the answer was too far over the line and into shooting-the-bird territory. “And in all fairness,” he added, “it’s almost inconceivable to me.”

  I mulled over what little I’d learned so far. Okay, so the bond between a lord and his demahnk ptarl was never intended to be mutually beneficial, but the demahnk clearly weren’t at the beck and call of the lords. So what was the deal? “The demahnk initiated the bonds with the lords, not vice versa,” I said after a moment of thought.

  Zack offered no verbal or physical cues of affirmation or denial, and that on its own spoke volumes. “I don’t know if I could do it, even if it is . . .” He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Even if it’s right?” I asked. I shuffled the bits and pieces of clues into what I hoped was a logical order. “I guess you’d have to weigh the long-term effects of doing it,” I assumed he meant breaking the bond with Rhyzkahl, “against the long-term effects of letting the parasite continue to feed.”

  “Plus the short-term effects, and medium-term effects. And if it is indeed ‘right.’” He looked away, exhaled. “Throw on top of that a sincere desire to protect and cultivate the parasite, and it gets more twisted.”

  No kidding, I thought as I filed information away. Since Zack seemed to have more freedom saying parasite rather than Rhyzkahl, I stuck with the metaphor. “Parasites are funny things,” I said conversationally. “They can be beneficial to their hosts, but the kicker is that it’s only because it’s beneficial for the parasite.” I stood, chucked a stick into the water. “And sometimes there comes a point when it has no further need of its host.” I slid a glance to him. “Then again, most parasites aren’t with hosts who have friends who will stand right by them and pick them up when needed.”

  “Very, very true.” He fought for a smile, but his eyes held a fear I’d never seen in him before. His throat bobbed in a noisy swallow. “I wonder what happens to the host when isolated from both the parasite and the other hosts?”

  Tidbits of information filtered through his words. Other hosts. He’d expanded beyond himself. The other demahnk? “The other hosts would still be prisoners of their parasites,” I said, then crouched before him. “The free host would be with others who are free.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as though blocking physical sight would block a concept too traumatic to consider. “Not others of its own kind.” He opened his eyes and repeated in a voice as empty as the void, “Not others of its own kind.”

  An ache of sympathy tightened my chest. How well would I be able to face a choice that meant isolation from all humans as one of its consequences? There was a reason why solitary confinement was a punishment. “I’m so sorry.” I slipped my arm around him in a cradling hug. He leaned into me as though craving any form of comfort he could get.

  “I’m so tired, Kara,” he said. “So tired. I don’t know if I answered why I can’t go get Angela.” He paused. “No. That’s not true. I can, but I won’t.”

  “It was enough,” I reassured him. “We’ll find another way.” And we would. Somehow. What good would it do to save Idris if we lost Zack?

  He remained still and quiet for a moment. “Kara, this is the part where I’m supposed to strip from you everything that you’ve inferred, surmised, or heard.”

  I took a moment to process that. Zack can do mind manipulation, I realized. I’d harbored some suspicions about that due to the nature of his work with Szerain, but the demahnk in general certainly didn’t advertise that they possessed that particular ability.

  Has he been reading me, all of us, all this time? I suddenly wondered, then dismissed the worry. I didn’t want to open another can of worms after finally getting the lid on the first one.

  More importantly, I knew that if he chose to, he could strip it all from me right now and I’d never know the difference. I hated—hated—that aspect of manipulation.

  I shifted to look into his face. “You’re supposed to strip it, but you’re not going to, are you?” I gave a cheeky smile. “Maybe it’s because you know that if you do, I’ll keep on annoying the crap out of you by asking you to do shit you’re not allowed to do.” I pursed my lips, raised an eyebrow at him. “But I don’t think that’s the case. You don’t want others reading it from me, but you also don’t want to strip the information. And, being the self-proclaimed rebel and troublemaker that you are, you figure you can get away with leaving it, probably by shielding it.”

  He regarded me soberly, though a hint of humor danced in his eyes. Finally. “You’re on to me.”

  “I’m a smart bitch.”

  He gave a sharp laugh, but didn’t argue. “Does this mean you agree to succumb to shielding?”

  “I do.” My brow furrowed. “Shielding me doesn’t change the fact that you leapt across the line and shot the bird. How’s that going to work for you?”

  “Probably about as well as boiling spaghetti in gasoline,” he said with trace of a smile and a resigned shrug.

  I waited for him to lay his hand on my head, gave him an expectant look when he didn’t. “Aren’t you going to do the shielding now?”

  “It’s already done.”

  I blinked. Innnnnteresting. Faster than a lord and without touch. Zack was continuing to feed me subtle information without telling me a damn thing directly.

  “Slick,” I said with a smile, though my worry remained. “What if Rhyzkahl reads it from you?”

  He shook his head. “The qaztahl cannot read the demahnk.”

  Even more innnnnteresting. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “How about a big posse breakfast-for-dinner at Lake o’ Butter complete with bad jokes, bad table manners, and a crappy waitress?” He managed a comical facial expression filled with equal measures of hope and doubt.

  I grinned and rolled my eyes, relieved that we’d moved beyond the tension. “That would go over great, except for the fact that we’d be sitting ducks for Farouche. But, damn it, now I want pancakes.” I considered the alternatives, smiled. “I bet Jekki could make some, and between you, me, Bryce, and Paul, we have the bad jokes and table manners covered.”

  “Kara’s Kafé! Beats Lake o’ Butter by a carbohydrate landslide.” Zack scrambled to his feet and shuddered like a dog shedding water. In the space of a few seconds he seemed to cast off all of the heaviness of the last half hour and was back to cheerful, casual, relaxed Zack again.

  Except now I knew it was an illusion. It wasn’t all fake, but there was a shitload more below the surface.

  “Don’t you have files to work on?” I asked as we headed for the house.

  He draped a companionable arm over my shoulders. “Some things are worth the price you have to pay.”

  “Pancakes,” I said, though I doubted he meant either dinner or work. “Pancakes are always worth it.”

  “Damn straight, Kara.”

  • • •

  Kara’s Kafé opened that night, with all eight of us crowded into the kitchen and none of us minding, not even Mzatal. Good company and bad jokes. Jekki’s hysterically failed attempts to be a crappy waitress. Pancakes, bacon, and syrup, then wine, conversation, laughter, and companionable fellowship into the night.

  The Mraztur had their schemes of world domination, but they’d underestimated the ultra-sappy and mega-cheesy power of love, friendship, and family.

  No two ways about it. My posse rocked.

  Chapter 31

  “More cofffeeeeee, Kara Gillian!” Jekki announced as he deftly topped off my mug.

  It had turned into something of a game between us this morning, where he could only refill my mug when it got below half full, but if I drank it past the three-quarters mark then I apparently “scored.” Moreover, it was cheating if I chugged it, and if he was ready with the coffee pot I had to allow him to ref
ill it. I wasn’t quite sure how he managed to score. Maybe he got a point every time I had to get up to pee? Either way, he seemed to be enjoying it tremendously.

  I also didn’t mind being overdosed with coffee this morning. Weird dreams had awakened me a number of times during the night. Not exactly nightmares, but somehow worse, since they continued to hang around in jumbled bits and snatches. Idris was in them. And Tessa. And Tessa’s fruity tea. A swimming pool full of it. And the damn ring I’d glimpsed as Idris was sent to Earth, the ring I couldn’t sketch for shit—though, in the dream, it was more of a ring-shaped dirigible that hovered over my house.

  The bizarre images floated through my head while I nursed the latest cup of coffee. Every ounce of intuition I possessed told me the ring was a key clue, a link to the specific person who had received Idris on Earth, which would then—hopefully—lead to a location.

  Right now, however, we had it narrowed down to “someone working for Katashi and/or Farouche.” Yeah, that was useful.

  I needed an artist. An artist who could draw it from my description. Like a police sketch artist, I thought, then immediately dismissed the idea. Dinky little Beaulac PD didn’t have one of those. For that matter, New Orleans was probably the closest place with a trained police sketch artist, and I’d have a hard time explaining why I needed their services to find a damn ring.

  What about Ryan? Beneath the overlay of Ryan was Szerain—the sculptor, painter, and consummate artist, as demonstrated by the hundreds of works of his I saw while in the demon realm, all brilliant and evocative. I had yet to see Ryan show any sort of artistic ability, but I’d also never seen him try.

  Frowning, I lowered my mug. There were two problems with asking Ryan to do it: The first was that I had no idea if Szerain’s talent was accessible to Ryan. Second, he’d have to read me to get what the ring looked like, and I wasn’t even certain he could read me as Ryan. I only knew he had the ability to shift memories around. And, if he could actually read me, it would be disastrous if he happened to pick up the whole, “Oh, by the way, you’re also an exiled demonic lord.” Of course, if Ryan could read that info, Zack never would have allowed him to do the memory-shift thing after my encounter with Farouche, which meant that, either way, Ryan was out of the running.

  Jekki gave a delighted burble as he refilled my mug, then a trill of unparalleled glee as I took a quick break to “unget” coffee. One point for Jekki.

  On my return to the kitchen, I took my musings on a different tack. What about Szerain? Perhaps he could sketch the ring from my memory if he was unsubmerged enough? He’d surfaced on the confluence before, so logically, he’d do even better on the mini-nexus—as long as I kept well away from any touchy subjects relating to ptarls or his essence blade.

  “Jekki, have you seen Ryan?” I asked as I dug in the kitchen junk drawer for a pencil.

  “Climb and run and jump,” he burbled with a flick of one hand toward the back of the house. The obstacle course.

  I found a partially chewed pencil with a bit of eraser left, then slugged down the rest of my coffee, thanked the faas and headed out back. I saw Ryan by the wall at the end of the course; he was smeared with mud and his t-shirt dark with sweat, but to my surprise Mzatal was there with him. The two stood face to face, obviously having words of some sort to judge by the expressions on both faces.

  I stepped off the porch to approach them, and as I did so Mzatal turned abruptly and strode off down the path that led to the pond.

  What the hell was that all about? I moved towards Ryan. “Hey, everything okay?”

  His body jerked, and he took a stagger step back. He turned and blinked at me, disoriented, and I realized with a start it had been Szerain having angry words with Mzatal.

  “Ryan,” I said with force, hoping the name would help him get his mental balance. “You okay?” Sure, I wanted to talk to Szerain, but in a more controlled manner.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then lifted a hand to wipe sweat from his face as he opened them and focused on me. “A little dizzy, that’s all.” He gave me a rueful smile that was very much Ryan. “Coffee, no breakfast, and a hard workout. I’m smart like that.”

  I laughed in response, though I didn’t feel very amused. “Go shower and get some food, and then I need to use you.”

  He gave me a comical leer. “Your place or mine?”

  Snorting, I smacked him in the shoulder. “You have no place. I’m the mean landlady in this scenario.”

  “Ooh, roleplay!” He laughed as he ducked my punch. “Yes, mean. Very mean. Okay, fine, I’ll go clean up then meet you in the kitchen.” He turned and jogged to the house.

  A fierce ache bloomed in my chest as I watched him go. I was going to lose this. Ryan wasn’t real, and I was going to lose this awesome friendship, this person I could joke around with and tease. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it but keep the smile fixed on my face while one of my best friends slowly disappeared forever.

  I followed him inside and heard the water already running in the bathroom. A search of the fridge for leftovers revealed half a pan of lasagna, some sort of chicken salad, guacamole, and half a cheesecake. After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled out the lasagna. Probably more calorific than the cheesecake, but I wouldn’t have a sugar-rush crash half an hour later.

  By the time Ryan returned, dressed in khakis and a black t-shirt, I had two plates of lasagna heated up and on the table. He gave me a smile and dropped into one of the chairs. “For a mean landlady, you’re pretty nice.”

  “I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” I told him as I sat, and we both fell silent for a few minutes while we downed the perfect combo of carbs and protein and fat.

  “Damn, Zack can cook,” Ryan finally said, scraping up the last bits. “Okay, what do you need to use me for?”

  I stuffed the last bite into my mouth and gulped it down. “Can you come out to the mini-nexus with me? I need to know if you can sense something.”

  He leaned back, patted his stomach. “Sure, now that you’ve bribed me with food.”

  On our way outside I paused to grab the pad and pencil as well as a tarp so we wouldn’t get wet butts from sitting on the ground. I spread the tarp over the mini-nexus and sat, then gestured for Ryan to sit in front of me. He gave me a questioning look but complied.

  “Now, close your eyes and chill,” I said. “I’m trying something.”

  He closed his eyes, frowned. “Trying what?”

  “Chill!” I ordered. “Sheesh.”

  He snorted, but subsided. I pygahed, and after a few minutes his posture shifted subtly. He drew a deep breath, though his eyes remained closed.

  “Here,” Szerain said in a small, near breathless voice.

  Relief swept through me. “We need a better drawing of the ring I saw when Idris was sent to Earth.” My mouth twitched. “I’ve been told that my art skills are, ah, less than optimal. Can you help? I have paper and a pencil.”

  A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes, I’ve seen your drawings.” But then his throat worked in a swallow. “I do not know if I can help.”

  “Would you please try?” I asked. “I know this is a big request.”

  He remained silent for long enough that I decided it was a refusal. I started to thank him and get up when he finally spoke in a soft voice.

  “Show me.”

  Settling back down, I took his hand and placed it against my cheek, aware that physical contact improved reading ability. I closed my eyes and called up the memory of the ring. Dual stones, dark red and onyx, set in intricate gold filigree.

  “It is enough,” he said after a moment, though he still didn’t move.

  Uncertain, I lowered his hand and set the paper and pencil in his lap. “Do you need me to do anything?”

  “Help me to grip the pencil,” he said, voice wavering. “Difficult. Specific blocks are in place to deter. Will attempt.”

  A pang sliced through me at the cruelty upon crue
lty. His prison had been fitted with a goddamn anti-art filter. For what purpose other than to twist the knife? I curled his fingers around the pencil, then placed the tip on the paper. Silently willing support, I reached to take his other hand. Yet he remained inhumanly still, his hand ice cold in mine. I extended, touched the mini-nexus and waited silently. This had to work.

  An odd ripple went through my body, and I realized he was using me as a conduit to draw potency from the mini-nexus. Controlling the flare of uncertainty, I allowed it, though I kept a damn close watch for any sign of him using that potency for anything other than the task at hand.

  The pencil jerked across the pad in shaky, short movements. I remained quiet, pygahing for him and supporting. My eyes dropped to the pad. Little more than scribble marks on it.

  Sweat dripped from his face to splop onto the paper. “New . . . page,” he said, voice intense and strained. I quickly turned to a clean sheet, and he began to draw again.

  We repeated this process half a dozen more times, each sketch gradually improving on the one before, all while his other hand maintained a hard, ice cold grip on mine. Finally he began to move more fluidly, and he created a sketch of the ring far far better than my horrible rendition.

  “Again,” he croaked. I flipped the page, though I took more care with this one to avoid smearing it. He drew a deep breath. “Pygah. Please,” he whispered in desperate determination.

  Focusing, I mentally traced the calming, centering sigil, consciously facilitated the flow of potency to him. He sketched the ring one more time, then dropped the pencil. “All . . . I can do.”

  I pulled the pad to me and let out a delighted laugh. “Hot damn! Thank you! That’s ten billion times better than mine.”

  Szerain jerked, and his head lolled for an instant before Ryan straightened and blinked. I quickly closed the pad to hide the drawing of the ring.

  “Did it work?” he asked with a puzzled frown, completely Ryan in voice and manner. “Felt like I went out for a while.”

  “You did,” I said and gave a low laugh. “You fell asleep.”