Legacy of the Demon

by Diana Rowland

  But at the moment I didn’t give two shits about left-behind demon jewelry. Cursing, I flung the staff aside, then sank into a crouch and gripped my head in my hands. Frustration hammered through me with every throb of my pulse, yet guilty relief rode hard on its heels. I hated that I was still without answers, but I was glad the demon had found a way to escape capture—and that felt ten kinds of wrong. Yes, this threat was eliminated. But what about the next incursion? And why the purple hells had the demon reacted so violently to the mention of the lords? Fuck the lords? I’d certainly said the same more than once—about a few of them, at least, and not in a friendly way—but I couldn’t fathom why a demon would say so.

  A hand rested on my shoulder. I looked up to see Roma, her face scrunched into a sympathetic grimace.

  “Not your fault.” She gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze then released it. “Never thought one of those things would be willing to go that far to keep from being taken prisoner.”

  “None of us did,” Ahmed said, eyes weary over his magnificent beard. “Sarge is right. That beast was hard core. Next one we’ll wrap up tight.” Behind him, other members of Alpha Squad murmured similar sentiments.

  “Thanks, y’all,” I said, forcing a smile as I straightened and accepted various pats on the back and further gestures of comfort I didn’t deserve. Their show of support wasn’t helping my guilt, but I knew it was their own way of dealing with the disappointment. Not to mention, they were simply an awesome team—which made letting them down even harder. Why couldn’t any of this shit be black and white?

  Keeping a brave face, I congratulated each one on a job well done then dismissed them with our traditional “I hope I never see you again”—our mutual prayer for a time when the squad would no longer be needed to respond to rifts and incursions. The current Alpha Squad record for the longest time without getting called out was four days.

  Scott Glassman stooped to pick up the staff as the squad filed away. “Don’t worry. We’ll all back you up in the debrief.”

  I groaned. I’d forgotten all about that special level of hell. “I’m not sure I can get through a debrief without ripping my own throat out.” A typical debrief involved a bunch of pricks who never saw the front lines Monday-morning-quarterbacking every decision and move we’d made. I’d agreed to fight with DIRT—hell, I’d helped found the unit—because it was the best way to defend and protect Earth. I believed in the mission, and I believed that, for the most part, the worldwide organization was making a positive difference. But the FBI special task force, Homeland Security, and a host of other Feds could go jump in a rift, as far as I was concerned.

  “You’d better give me that,” I said with a scowl, gesturing to the staff. “I might need to give a few people an up close and personal demonstration of how it works.”

  “Wouldn’t blame you one bit,” Scott said, wisely not handing it over. “I was only detained for ten hours of questioning. You had what, five days?”

  “Six.” Sharp pain lanced through a molar, and I forced myself to relax my jaw. Six days of FBI detention after the valve explosion. Before then, I never in a million years would’ve thought I could ever find a trace of benefit from the torture ritual I endured at Rhyzkahl’s hands. But after experiencing the worst torment a body and mind could survive, the task force’s interrogation was downright friendly.

  “Who’s on call?” I asked. Not everyone on the task force was a dickface.

  “Clint Gallagher.”

  Ugh. Gallagher was one of the Feds who deserved a rectal staff insertion. A hard core pain in my ass. My satellite phone buzzed in my tactical vest. “Shit. Probably Gallagher wanting to start his rant early.” But my dread turned to relief when I checked the ID. “It’s Cory.” Cory Crawford, our former sergeant at the Beaulac PD who’d been seriously injured while trying to evacuate prisoners before the valve blew. “I’m supposed to go see him,” I added in a fit of inspiration. I’d made no such arrangement, but the day was young and the Feds were on the way.

  Amusement flashed in Scott’s eyes. He wasn’t fooled. “Sounds good to me. Tell him to stop milking his sick leave. He was only in a coma for a week.”

  “Right?” I scoffed. “And it’s not like he lost both legs.”

  “’Zackly. He can still hop on his left.” He winked and turned away to help with cleanup while I answered the phone.

  “Hey, Cory,” I said. “Scott says you’re a lazy wimp.” In fact, Cory had been the polar opposite of lazy, diving into physical therapy with a vengeance the instant he was cleared to do so, and he had graduated to home health care three weeks ago.

  “Yeah, well I learned from watching him,” Cory said, voice thin and stressed.

  I frowned. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound good.”

  “I don’t feel good. My head is killing me, and I keep getting chills.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I just need some pills for nausea, and I can’t get hold of my aide. I shouldn’t be bothering you, but—”

  “Don’t be silly,” I interrupted. “I’ll be right over.”

  “No, you don’t have to drop everything just for me,” he said, though he couldn’t hide his relief. “I figured you might know someone less busy you could send.”

  “It’s cool, I promise.” His unintentional barb hit home. War didn’t leave much time for social niceties, and Cory had been low on my priority list. He deserved a damn visit. Everything else could wait. “I just finished taking down a demon and can be there with meds in thirty.”

  He exhaled. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, Sarge.” As I hung up, a cluster of four wheelers rumbled into the parking lot with Vince Pellini in the lead. At the sight of me, he peeled off and headed my way. Italian features, dark hair, and a mustache that belonged in a cheap porno. Pellini was a big guy, though in the past two months of fighting demons he’d traded a fair amount of flab for muscle. I’d worked with Pellini for nearly three years in the Investigations Division of the Beaulac PD, and my opinion of him had been pretty lousy—he was lazy, obnoxious, sloppy, and generally unpleasant to be around. It was only a couple of weeks before the valve explosion that I learned his carefully guarded secret: he could see and use the arcane, trained as a youth by none other than Lord Kadir and his demons.

  We’d quickly become unlikely allies, working closely as a solid team. My arcane abilities were currently limited to sensing potency with minimal capacity to utilize it. Pellini could manipulate potency just dandy, but he didn’t have the training and experience to know what to do with it. Together we kicked ass at hot spots all over the world, tackling the tough shit that few other arcane users could hope to handle. Not that we had much competition, with only eleven summoners total on DIRT’s roster. However, shortly after DIRT was formed, I’d spearheaded a recruitment effort and screening-training program, and now most units had at least one “talented” person who could reliably sense the arcane.

  Pellini killed the engine of his four wheeler. “Three more graa and a kehza since the big reyza took off.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Sykes is going to need a couple dozen stitches on his arm, and Ferguson took a claw swipe to the gut. He’s in critical condition, but they think he’ll pull through.” His face sagged, and I steeled myself. “Nate Rushton is gone. A goddamn savik got hold of his ankle and dragged him into the rift.”

  “Shit.” The gut punch of losing one of our own never got easier, even after so many. “His wife just had a baby six weeks ago. They’re up in Kentwood.” My throat tightened. “Safer there.”

  We both fell silent for several seconds. Safer. Nowhere was safe.

  Pellini scrubbed his hands over his face. “One bit of good news is that HQ finally came up with enough SkeeterCheater to cover the whole rift. The rift maintenance unit should be able to pick off new arrivals now.” He swung off the four wheeler and swept a gaze over the parking lot. “No luc
k on capturing the big reyza, huh?” His expression remained bland, but I knew his feelings on the issue were in line with mine.

  “Had him in the net,” I said. “And then he ripped his own throat out.”

  Pellini’s heavy brows drew together. “You’re shitting me.”

  I shook my head. “Dude, I’ve never seen a reyza like this before.” I gave him a quick and dirty description, then showed him the pile of gold jewelry—currently being photographed and guarded by Petrev and Hines.

  Pellini let out a low whistle. “Nice of the demon to pay for damages.”

  The comment wrung a laugh out of me. “Yeah, the Feds might be able to buy us a new tank with it. Speaking of Feds, I’m bugging out of here as soon as you and I lock this rift and before the debrief. Cory called and isn’t feeling great, so I’m going to swing by with some nausea meds.”

  “I’ll drop in after I give my report to the relief sergeant,” he said then grinned. “I can get away with a five minute verbal report since I’m a lowly Arcane Specialist and not the Arcane Commander.” He slammed a fist to his chest in a mock salute.

  I rolled my eyes. “I swear they picked that title just to fuck with me. C’mon, lowly one. Let’s lock this thing.”

  We’d had far too many opportunities to perfect our method of rift-locking on active rifts, with me giving instructions and him placing the strands, but that wealth of experience meant we got this one set without a glitch.

  I’d barely stepped clear of the rift when I felt a vibration beneath my feet that I knew wasn’t just a heavy truck. Breathing a curse, I swung around in search of cracks in the earth or arcane flames—any sign of another forming rift.

  “Relax, Kara,” Pellini said gently. “It’s just the Horsemen.”

  “Oh.” I blew out a breath. “It’s possible I’m wound a teensy bit too tightly.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” He gave my shoulder a light punch then turned as a dozen horses and riders accompanied by a massive bear-like dog came trotting around a bend in the road. The DIRT 1st Cavalry Unit, more commonly known as the Twelve Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Riding at the front of the formation was Marcel Boudreaux—a former coworker who used to be Pellini’s partner in the Investigations Division. He and I had never much liked each other either, but his feelings had shifted to outright animosity around the same time Pellini and I found common ground. Boudreaux suspected I had something to do with the death of J.M. Farouche—a local businessman who’d been a major figure in his life since he was a kid.

  Didn’t help that he was right. Though I hadn’t pulled the trigger on Farouche, I sure as hell didn’t stop the guy who did. Nor would I have. Farouche needed to be taken down.

  At the sight of me, Boudreaux barked out a command. The riders turned their horses our way. Though Boudreaux and I had our differences, I’d actually come to, if not like, respect him a great deal more. His dreams of being a champion jockey had been shattered in a terrible racing accident, and his hopes of making a difference as a cop had fared only slightly better. Yet a little over a month ago, he’d shown up at a mid-level rift with half a dozen other riders and announced that they were ready for action, insisting that the horses were highly trained and wouldn’t spook. The regional commander wanted to send him on his way, but I intervened—without Boudreaux’s knowledge. Boudreaux knew horses and police work, and we were in serious need of a mobile unit that could operate in woods and ruins and trails—places where even four wheelers couldn’t go.

  Since that first day, Boudreaux had added another six riders, including one who handled a Caucasian shepherd—two hundred pounds of demon-killing canine perfection. The cavalry unit had proved to be invaluable, both in hunting down flightless demons as well as patrolling evacuated areas for human looters and lawbreakers.

  Boudreaux brought his horse to a stop a dozen feet away then made a show of shading his eyes and looking over the parking lot. “I see a net,” he finally said, brow furrowed in mock confusion. “But where’s the enormous demon you were supposed to catch? Don’t tell me that Kara the Great and Powerful let it slip through her magical fingers?”

  A chuckle rippled through his unit, but I kept a pleasant smile on my face. “It self-terminated,” I said with a shrug.

  He smirked down at me. “Then it’s a good thing we knew what we were doing.” He gestured behind him then reined his horse to one side. A pair of riders moved up with a wiggling bundle slung between their horses. Flashes of sharp, bone-white teeth and midnight-black reptilian hide showed through the layers of graphene netting.

  Pellini stiffened. “It’s a kzak,” he murmured under his breath.

  My heart sank. Pellini had close ties with a kzak named Kuktok, though we didn’t know if the demon was still alive. While I sincerely hoped that Kuktok was indeed alive and well, I mentally crossed fingers that this captive wasn’t him. No way in hell would Pellini let Kuktok be taken off to be experimented on and worse.

  I summoned a bright smile and an impressed expression. “Nice work!” I said then boldly marched forward to inspect the kzak. It snarled and thrashed within the netting, glowing red eyes giving me a pissed look as it gnawed at the graphene without effect.

  Pellini moved up beside me, and his soft exhalation was all the answer I needed. It wasn’t Kuktok. “Yeah, these things are fast,” he said. “Y’all kicked ass.”

  I glanced over and saw the struggle on his face followed by the grim acceptance that he could do nothing for this particular kzak.

  “Horsemen!” Boudreaux thrust a fist into the air. “Time for a . . .”

  “BEER!” The riders shouted in enthusiastic unison.

  “And a shower!” someone cheerfully called out.

  Laughing, Boudreaux wheeled his horse. “Later, losers!” he called over his shoulder, and then he and the rest of the cavalry unit headed off with their prize.

  Sighing, I scrubbed both hands over my face. “I’d better get going to see Cory before the Feds get here.”

  Pellini tore his gaze away from the Horsemen and echoed my sigh. “Yeah. I’ll be by as soon as I finish up here.” He climbed onto the four wheeler, cranked the ignition and began to head off.

  “Pellini, wait!”

  He stopped and frowned at me over his shoulder.

  I jogged to catch up and gave him a hopeful grin. “Can you give me a ride to my vehicle?”

  “Seriously? You can’t walk a quarter mile?”

  “I’m lazy.”

  He shrugged. “I can respect that. Get on.”

  Chapter 3

  There weren’t a lot of perks that came with being the DIRT Arcane Commander. Being A.C. meant a fuckton of headaches and responsibility, hectic travel in military aircraft, pitched battles against otherworldly creatures, and of course mountains upon mountains of paperwork. A reasonable person might have expected the rank to at least come with unlimited chocolate donuts, but sadly even those were a distant memory.

  However, the one perk that almost made up for it all was my DIRT-issued vehicle: a brand spanking new Humvee. This wasn’t the watered down SUV version that entitled yuppies drove, either. It was the real deal—fully loaded and armored and able to go through all sorts of muck and rubble as well as handle steep inclines and side-slopes. And yes, after I got it I might have gone off road a few times and roared up a levee or three even when there were perfectly fine roads available. After all, I needed to be sure it lived up to its reputation, right?

  I leaned in and cranked the engine to get the air conditioning going, grabbed a bottle of water and took several long glugs, then spent the next several minutes peeling off my tactical armor. The gear was specially designed to protect against demon claws and teeth, and had saved me from serious injury more than once. I also didn’t mind that it looked seriously badass, especially when I was all kitted out—full uniform, armor and helmet, with a Glock on each thigh, a combat knif
e in my boot and another on my hip, extra ammo, fingerless gloves, and military goggles. I looked like a video game character—except for the fact that I didn’t have the double-D boobs required for that sort of thing.

  I stowed my gear in the back seat, noting as I pulled off my gloves that my ring had worn a hole in the left fourth finger. I’d requested replacement gloves twice already for the same reason. Maybe I could requisition a bunch of left ones? I certainly wasn’t going to stop wearing the ring. Yes, it was scorched and scratched, with empty, twisted prongs that I’d crimped down as much as possible then covered with electrical tape, but it had been a gift from the demonic lord Mzatal and was deeply precious to me, symbolic on numerous levels. The glove was just a damn glove.

  And I needed to get my ass in gear. A half hour had already passed since Cory called. Fortunately, he lived only a few miles from the crumbling Piggly Wiggly, and the one drugstore still open for business in the Beaulac area was just a couple of blocks out of my way.

  Two National Guardsmen stood near the drugstore entrance and gave me crisp salutes that I returned not quite as crisply as I dashed in. Three minutes later I dashed back out with the anti-nausea meds, beef jerky, and a lemon Hubig Pie of indeterminate age, then jumped into my Humvee and roared off. At least I didn’t need to worry about traffic. Ninety percent of the civilian population within Beaulac city limits had left the area, abandoning homes and businesses, and hoping for the best elsewhere while writing off their losses here. Whole neighborhoods were deserted now, long since picked over by looters. Beyond the city limits, over a third of the residents had stayed, with some communities forming tight, well-armed enclaves to fight back against both looters and demons. And, of course, the insurance companies were refusing to pay out any claims yet for rift or demon-incurred damage. No doubt they were waffling over whether to use the “Act of God” or the “in time of war” clause to avoid cutting a check.