Blood of the Demon

by Diana Rowland

  He inclined his head. “Agreed. In return, I will remove the threat that this woman poses to you and to those you hold dear.” I thought his lip curled in derision, but if so the expression was a brief one.

  “And you will also agree,” I said, straightening my shoulders, “on all subsequent summonings of your person, to answer no less than three questions that I ask of you, to the best of your ability.”

  A faint smile curved the corner of his mouth, as if pleased at my temerity to bend the negotiation to my favor, even if only by a few millimeters. “One question.”

  “Two.”

  “Done. These are terms that I can and will abide by.”

  I let my breath out. “These are terms that I can and will abide by,” I echoed. And, to my relief, they were.

  “Give me your hand, Kara.”

  I extended my right hand, but he shook his head and reached for my left, turning it palm up. A knife abruptly appeared in his hand, a wicked and evil-looking artifact, with a blade that shimmered with an oily blue sheen and a handle covered in spikes that thrust between his fingers as he gripped it. The thought flashed through me that a careless grasp on that knife would be a painful experience. A dark-blue jewel capped the pommel with a dull light that seemed to flicker sluggishly from its depths.

  A spasm of abject terror shot through me at the sight of the knife, for no reason that I could name. But before I could yank my hand back, Rhyzkahl tightened his hold and pulled my arm straight, then slid the knife across my forearm, perfectly following the thin scar on my arm from where I’d cut my own flesh to summon Kehlirik. A hideous wave of cold nausea swept through me at the touch of the blade, but it was gone as soon as the metal was no longer in contact with my flesh. I watched the blood well up from the shallow slice, then looked up at Rhyzkahl in time to see him make a similar slice on his own forearm. He took a step closer to me and pressed the two slices together. I expected to feel something—a shock or burning or something bizarre as the blood mingled—but all I could feel was the powerful aura of him that surrounded us both.

  “And now the oath is bound in blood.” He smiled and kissed me—a light and strangely chaste kiss, especially compared to some of the deep and throbbing and heat-filled kisses he had laid on me before.

  “I need to know something,” I said after he stepped back. “I mean … could you answer two questions for me now?”

  He inclined his head ever so slightly in acquiescence.

  “You said that the link you had with my dreams was broken when I died … but … do you still have any sort of link to me?”

  For an instant I had the impression he wanted to laugh, but all he did was smile. “Perceptive and clever. In those last seconds before you perished, I forged a new and different link—one that I knew would survive your death.”

  The fucker. He hadn’t lied to me before, but he sure hadn’t told me the whole truth. But at least now I knew.

  “Your second question?” he prompted. I had a feeling he knew what I was going to ask. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know the answer, but I knew I needed to know.

  “What is a kiraknikahl?” I asked, voice cracking.

  The demon’s mouth curved in a hard smile. “A kiraknikahl is an oath-breaker.”

  A heartbeat later his throne room was gone and we were back in the attic, leaving me no chance to process the meaning of his answer. The knife was still in Rhyzkahl’s hand, and even as I registered the change in the surroundings, he turned and seized Rachel, yanking her away from Ryan in a swift and fluid move. Before she could do more than widen her eyes in shock, Rhyzkahl had plunged the knife into Rachel’s chest, directly into her heart.

  She screamed and clutched at the knife, clawing at Rhyzkahl’s hands as he held it buried to the evil hilt in her chest. Ryan sagged heavily to his knees, then looked up at Rachel and Rhyzkahl. His eyes rested on the knife, widening in horror as he scrabbled weakly back, gaze locked on the blade.

  Rachel screamed again—a sound a thousand times worse than the scream Ryan had made when she’d begun to steal his essence. Rhyzkahl slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him in what could have been a loving embrace except for the knife he held buried in her chest. I could feel a malevolent coiling of potency filling the room, and I found myself drawing back from the two of them along with Ryan, not stopping until we were both up against the wall of the attic.

  “No,” I heard Ryan moan. “No. Not that.” I tore my gaze away from Rhyzkahl to look at Ryan. A look of indescribable grief and horror filled his eyes. He suddenly turned to look at me, then his gaze dropped to my forearm, and, if anything, the grief and horror increased. “Kara. Kara, what did you do?”

  I looked down at my forearm, expecting to see the line of blood, but instead I saw a swirl of potency where the cut had been. In the span of three heartbeats, the swirl coalesced to form an intricate mark on the inside of my forearm, as if tattooed there by arcane power. I knew the symbol well. The Mark of Rhyzkahl. I turned away from Ryan. I didn’t need to hear his condemnation. “I did what I had to do.”

  The dark-blue gem in the knife’s pommel suddenly flared, and Rachel sagged in Rhyzkahl’s arms. He released her and stepped back, dropping her like a sack of flour. She collapsed into a heap, then, as we watched, her body shriveled and began to disintegrate until, a few heartbeats later, nothing remained but dust and clothing.

  I could feel myself taking shallow gasps of breath. Like a fucking vampire in sunlight. Oddly appropriate, though, I thought, in a corner of my mind that was trying to focus on something, anything, to keep from remembering the sound of that last tortured scream.

  Rhyzkahl turned to me. He lifted the wicked knife in a mock salute, inclining his head to me. “As agreed,” he said, with no elaboration, glancing briefly to Ryan and then back to me. I didn’t need him to elaborate. He was informing me that he’d fulfilled this portion of the agreement.

  I gulped and inclined my head to him. “As agreed,” I echoed hoarsely.

  He smiled brilliantly, then was gone.

  Ryan slowly got to his feet, eyes on the tumbled pile of dust and clothing that was all that remained of Rachel Roth. I watched him warily for about a dozen heartbeats, but he made no move to turn to me or look at me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. He did look better. Whatever essence Rachel had drained from him had apparently gone back to him when Rhyzkahl destroyed her.

  He nodded once without looking at me—a short, quick motion, the barest amount of necessary movement to give the required answer.

  My throat tightened, and a feeling like cold lead settled into my stomach. A part of me had expected this sort of reaction, but that didn’t make it feel any better. He’s alive. I’ve probably lost him, but at least he’s alive.

  Lost him? I’d never had him. And now it was too late.

  I wanted to say something else, but then I decided that I really didn’t. I turned and headed out of the attic and down the stairs, all the time hoping to hear him call out to me, but when I reached the door there was still nothing but a calm ticking silence in the house.

  I exited into dusky twilight in time to see a black Crown Victoria screech into the driveway behind Ryan’s car. Zack ran toward the steps, stopping in his tracks when he saw me.

  “Kara, I just heard the bolo—” He stopped, eyes on my forearm, face paling. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Ryan’s inside. He’s fine—now. Rachel’s been taken care of. I’m going home.” I walked past him to my car, not looking back.

  “Kara …?” He sounded bewildered.

  “Ryan’s fine. I’m going home!” I repeated through clenched teeth, then I climbed into my car, slammed the door, and sped off.

  Chapter 34

  IT TOOK SEVERAL DAYS TO CLEAN UP THE LOOSE ENDS and complete the paperwork, but by the middle of the following week the cases were squared away. Carol Roth’s death had been ruled a negligent homicide, with Harris Roth listed as the primary suspect. A
rrest warrants had been issued for Rachel Roth for the murders of Brian Roth and Davis Sharp. I’d managed to scrape together enough probable cause for warrants, though I knew there would be no way to prove her guilt in court. It didn’t matter. It was all for the paper trail. It wasn’t as if Rachel would ever be found.

  I didn’t see Ryan in all that time. I’d driven by my aunt’s house the morning after the confrontation with Rachel, prepared to keep driving if his car or Zack’s car was there, but the driveway was empty. And when I checked the house, I found that everything had been cleaned and locked up.

  After that I went to the station and had a talk with my sergeant. I started it out by asking him how much he wanted to know.

  Sergeant Cory Crawford looked at me steadily and said, “Tell me whatever it is I need to know.”

  It worked for both of us.

  For the official story, Sarge seemed content with one that ended up being close to the truth—minus the bit about Rachel sucking people’s souls out. Harris screwed around, accidentally killed one of his paramours—who happened to be his daughter-in-law—and Rachel tried to cover it up by killing Brian and staging it as a suicide. Another loose end was tied up when the Roth house was searched and a dark blue pickup with damage to the right front bumper was found in the garage.

  Sarge was also able to inform me that Judge Roth had been the one who’d asked to have me replaced with Pellini for the Brian and Carol Roth murders. “He probably knew that Pellini’s a lazy fuck,” he’d confided, “and figured there’d be less chance of the truth being discovered.”

  By the following Friday, the world in general had settled into something resembling normalcy. No one made any comment about the mark on my arm. Without other-sight, the mark looked like a very faint, slightly shimmery henna marking, essentially invisible unless you knew it was there. I’d received some quiet congratulations from my rank on my handling of the various cases, but then it was as if they could sense that I didn’t want to hear anything more about it, and the matter was left alone.

  I put the last of the paperwork in my captain’s box, more than glad to have it all done and behind me. I was the last one in the office; everyone else had been gone for hours. I locked the door to the silent bureau, then headed home—mostly because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

  When I pulled into my driveway, Ryan’s car was in front of my house. I parked my car next to his, a tired sensation of dread settling in my stomach. I wasn’t in the mood for any sort of explanation, or justification, or confrontation.

  I don’t fucking care what he thinks at this point, I decided. Strangely, I almost believed it.

  He wasn’t in his car, but when I looked around I saw him sitting on the steps of my porch. I’d forgotten to turn the light on before I left, so he was almost hidden in the shadows.

  I tugged the strap of my bag over my shoulder and walked up the steps. I was more than prepared to walk right past him if he started anything unpleasant.

  “Kara, I need to talk to you,” he said, voice low and rough.

  I continued to the door and set my bag down, then flicked on the porch light switch. Ryan stood and came up the stairs to me, light from the bulb over the door catching the reddish glints in his hair. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, frowning. I started to ask him what he was going to say, but he spoke first.

  “Kara, I …” He trailed off. I looked at him expectantly, trying not to prompt him in impatience and bracing myself for any number of things that he could be preparing to say.

  “I appreciate you,” he finally said, voice quiet.

  My stomach did an odd flip and I got a lump in my throat. I’d had a boyfriend once tell me he loved me, and my only emotional reaction had been sort of a mental wince. This simple admission from Ryan made me feel a thousand times more special.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t really know what else to say. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much else that needed to be said, on either side. He’d pretty much nailed it with those three words—had taken care of all the fears and worry that I’d been nursing throughout the past several days. The relief that I hadn’t saved him just to lose him was almost wrenching.

  He exhaled softly, as if he was echoing my relief. “Now, give me your damn keys.”

  I blinked at him, then warily handed him my keys.

  He took them from me and quickly unlocked the front door, then picked my bag up, grabbed my wrist with his other hand, and pulled me inside.

  “Ryan, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He kicked the front door closed and dropped my bag on the floor. Then he seized me by my shoulders so that I was facing him. At this point I was so stunned by his bizarre behavior that all I could do was stare at him.

  “Kara Gillian, Summoner of Demons,” Ryan said in a low but intense voice.

  “Yeah, that would be me,” I said with a scowl. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “You’re on the edge, foolish woman. You’re spent and strained, and you look like you’re on the verge of tears every other minute.”

  “Well, the past couple of months have sucked major ass, y’know?” I said, tears actually springing to my eyes. Then, before I even realized what was happening, I was bawling. Ryan pulled me close, wrapping an arm around me and holding my head against his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t murmur anything comforting. All he did was hold me.

  After a few minutes of me sobbing into his shirt, he shifted and lifted me in his arms, cradling my head against his shoulder as he walked to my bedroom. I’d never been carried like that before, the way the hero carries the damsel, and it made me cry harder. It wasn’t a pretty crying either—it was full-body racking sobs, with a horribly snotty nose and my eyes swelling up. But Ryan just held me close, silent and there. He took me into the bedroom and laid me on the bed, shifting position smoothly to lie down beside me, pushing me to my side and wrapping his arms around me again from behind.

  I cried like that, all wrapped up in him, until I fell asleep.

  WHEN I WOKE up, I was alone in bed. I felt a brief stab of loss but, at the same time, relief. And then, when I came out to the kitchen and found a box of chocolate donuts on the table, I was even able to laugh.

  My cell phone rang while I was making coffee to go with the donuts. I reached over and grabbed it, noting absently that it wasn’t the usual ring tone.

  “This is Kara Gillian,” I said as I measured out the grounds.

  “Ms. Gillian, this is Rebecca Stanford at Nord du Lac Neuro. Your aunt has woken up and she’s asking for you.”

  I felt frozen in time for a thousand heartbeats, though it was surely far less. It worked. She’s back. Finally a breathless laugh escaped me. “That’s … amazing.”

  The other woman hesitated. “Um, yes. Though I do want to prepare you; she may not be quite what you expect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes after long comas, it takes a little while for the brain to work properly again. Patients will say things that don’t seem to make much sense, and it can be quite shocking if you’re not expecting it.”

  “What sort of things is she saying?”

  I heard the other woman sigh. “She said, ‘Tell my niece that if she thinks I won’t flay her hide for serving a demonic lord, she’s seriously deluded.’”

  I burst out laughing. Tessa was definitely back.

  Blood of the Demon is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Diana Rowland

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the rooster
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90735-3

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