The deputy with O’Connor was a blond woman with a no-nonsense expression and “Harper” on her nametag. She patted me down and handcuffed me with brisk efficiency. I tried not to think about the number of times I’d done the same to an arrestee—never ever thinking I’d one day be on the other side of it. Without a smile or unneeded word, she seatbelted me into the back seat of her car and transported me to the parish jail. I remained silent for the duration of the ride, not because I was stoic, but because I didn’t trust myself to speak. I’d convinced myself that I was mentally prepared for this, but the reality was a vicious kick in the gut, and I balanced on the razor edge of control. Ex-cop under arrest was humiliating enough, but ex-cop under arrest who burst into tears on the way to jail would be worse than everything else combined.
Deep breaths and careful control got me through the urge to dissolve into a sobbing meltdown. By the time Harper escorted me to the booking area at the jail I’d regained enough composure to endure being processed in—searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and at last placed in a holding cell.
Concrete benches ran the length of three walls. Near the door a metal toilet and sink were tucked into a shallow alcove that offered zero privacy. The cell was as overly air-conditioned as I’d expected, and I silently applauded my sweatshirt wisdom.
I settled on the bench to my right then took unobtrusive stock of the other five women in the cell and tried to guess what they’d been arrested for. Two in their late thirties or early forties lay curled up on my bench, either asleep or pretending to be. Theft or Issuing Worthless Checks. A girl dressed as if she’d spent the day at the lakefront sniffled on the bench against the back wall. Eighteen if she was a day. Underage Driving Under the Influence, I decided. Across from me, a haggard-faced woman stared at nothing with defeat in her eyes. Possession of a Controlled Substance—no-brainer there. And not far from her, a woman in her mid-twenties sat in a stiff and scowly posture that radiated anger. Aggravated Battery, hands down.
Then again, how was I to know? Maybe every single one of them had been arrested for creating human-animal hybrids. I doubted any of them looked at me and thought, “Homicide.”
I leaned my head back against the cinderblock wall, crossed my arms over my chest, closed my eyes, and settled in for a long and boring night. Voices rose and fell in the hallway, and a cart with a clattering wheel rolled past. A door shut with a heavy clang followed by a stream of curses. Sweat and piss lurked beneath the acrid tang of industrial cleaner, and above it all drifted the old-cabbage scent of low-quality cafeteria food.
“Hey, Princess!”
Tensing for a confrontation, I opened my eyes to find Angry Chick focused on the sniveling girl. “Stop your fucking whining before I stop it for you,” she snapped at Young Thing, which did nothing except make the poor girl cower and cry harder.
Angry Chick rose to her feet. Young Thing’s eyes widened in terror, and she let out a thin panicked wail.
“Leave her alone,” I said, using the same mild and even tone Bryce used in stress situations. “She’s probably never been arrested before. I bet you were scared the first time you got hooked.”
Angry Chick rounded on me with a teeth-baring snarl. “You trying to say I’m a habitual offender, bitch?”
So much for being reasonable. Fine. I could play it her way. “Well, you sure are familiar with the term ‘habitual offender.’”
Angry Chick let out a growl of rage and took a step toward me, fists clenched.
“That’s a bad idea,” I said.
She hesitated, no doubt trying to understand why her subconscious told her I was a potential threat when I looked like an easy mark. I continued to regard her steadily. I’d locked gazes with far more powerful creatures than this woman.
To my dismay, instead of backing down as I’d hoped, she narrowed her eyes. “I know you,” she said. Dread flickered in my gut at the hatred in her voice. “You’re a cop.”
Son of a bitch. Adrenaline dumped into my system to send my pulse racing, and it took all the willpower I possessed to form a lazy smile.
“Not anymore,” I said. “I got a better offer.” With any luck her imagination would fill in lurid details. Enforcer for a cartel, or mercenary, or international spy.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t that creative. She sneered down her nose at me. “Doesn’t matter. Cop or ex-cop, I’ll beat you bloody before they pull me off you.”
If they pulled her off me. The dread roared to life. Even if the guards on duty thought Farouche deserved what he got, I couldn’t depend on their support. Far likelier that they regarded me as nothing more than a cop gone bad who deserved whatever might happen. And right now the “whatever might happen” I faced topped me by several inches and outweighed me by at least thirty pounds.
Sweat rolled down my sides despite the chill. My mind raced in search of a tactic to avoid a nasty fight but kept circling back to one ploy. Shit.
Heaving a deep sigh, I stood, nice and slowly, maintaining eye contact. When I spoke it was with a quiet and scary intensity that I’d learned from months of dealing with immortal beings of vast power.
“I’ve survived more pain, more torture than you could ever hope to dish out,” I said, stupidly pleased that I’d pitched my voice just right to resonate against the walls. With deliberate movements I pulled up my shirts to reveal my collection of scars. A whisper of horror flitted through her eyes. Sure, there were people who were into body modification through scarring, but a primal sense told her these scars were different.
Though my heart pounded like a marching band drumline, I lowered the sweatshirt and adjusted my clothing with steady hands. “Now then, you need to ask yourself if it’s worth trying to knock me down and punch me a few times when you know I’ll get Right. Back. Up.” I had no need to pygah to remain calm. Every word I spoke was the absolute truth.
Angry Chick knew it too. She retreated a step then put on the scowl of someone who knows they’ve been beaten but doesn’t want to look like a coward. “You ain’t worth my time,” she scoffed, but her words had no strength behind them. “Bitch, you lucky I don’t want more charges on me right now.”
“I am indeed very lucky,” I replied as I resumed my seat. I glanced over at the sniveling girl—who wasn’t sniveling anymore. She and the three others watched me with wide-eyed awe.
Angry Chick muttered under her breath but plopped back down onto her bench, no less angry than before, although cowed.
Good enough. With that settled, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter 31
I managed an entire hour of sleep before the irate cursing of a newcomer to the holding cell woke me. Mid-to-late thirties, blond and fit in a Cardio Barbie way. Expensive jeans and a rumpled silk blouse over perky and perfect fake tits. Obviously intoxicated, she continued a steady stream of high-volume cursing, even after the guard closed the door and walked off. I glared at her, but her ranting stayed aimed at the door as if she believed her words could carve through the metal. Original gems such as “Don’t you know who I am?” and “I’ll sue every one of you worthless morons!” and “I’ll have your jobs and you’ll be cleaning toilets!”— all accompanied by colorful descriptions of parentage and sexual preference.
A growl built in my throat as the tirade continued, but Angry Chick stood before I had a chance to say my piece.
“Sit your ass down and shut your hole!” Her voice cut right through the drunken cursing.
Rich Bitch swung around, tilted her head back to deliver a disparaging look. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” she ordered, radiating shocked insult that Angry Chick had spoken to her at all, much less with such disrespect. I knew this kind too well. Mega-Society upper class, entitled and convinced the world existed to serve her. Insulted when anyone had the unmitigated gall to treat her like an ordinary person. Most people swallowed their tongues around her type—myself included, back in the day—because every now and then the “I’ll have your job” threat was
carried out.
But Angry Chick had nothing Rich Bitch could threaten. I watched with undisguised delight as she closed the distance. Rich Bitch retreated until her fit and trim ass smashed up against the cell door. Inches away, Angry Chick loomed over the wide-eyed woman.
“Sit your ass down and shut your hole,” she repeated, slowly but with no less menace.
Tickled, I watched Rich Bitch’s face shift from outrage to consternation as she realized she wasn’t the most powerful person in the room. Gulping, she hunched her shoulders then scurried to the back of the holding cell to sit beside Young Thing. Angry Chick gave me a satisfied nod as if to say I got it covered then resumed her seat. Bemused, I returned the slight nod. Apparently I’d scored a follower. Maybe Angry Chick could be my lieutenant if I ended up staying here for any length of time.
A trustee brought in terrible bologna sandwiches and weak lemonade along with scratchy blankets for each of us. I let Angry Chick have my blanket to use as a pillow. She deserved it.
I ate my lousy sandwich, leaned my head back and closed my eyes once more, but sleep evaded me. My earlier nap had taken the edge off my exhaustion, and worry and tension wound through my thoughts. The women in this holding cell ran the gamut of social classes, as did the women and men enslaved in the demon realm. Amaryllis Castlebrook had been targeted because no one would miss her for a couple of days. What of the others? The captives deserved to go home if they wished, regardless of their backgrounds or how well—or not—they were treated by their captors.
Rhyzkahl was the kingpin on the demon side of the human trafficking. A grim smile tugged at my mouth. I had something he wanted. Perhaps I had enough leverage for what I wanted.
Cautious, I relaxed my mind and recalled the feeling of the dream state visit, as familiar and effortless as if I’d done it a million times. I felt him sleeping, willed myself into his presence.
A terrace of white demon marble shimmered and solidified around me. Beyond the stone balustrade, bright moonlight washed the turquoise sea far below the cliffs, and the leaves of Rhyzkahl’s grove glimmered emerald and amethyst a hundred paces away. I’d suspected, and Seretis had confirmed: This was the true demon realm, and in the dreamstate I saw and experienced it like an interactive remote viewing.
My breath caught as the arcane whispered through me, and glints of potency flows greeted me like long lost friends. Barely perceptible, yet I drank it in like licking morning dew off leaves to slake my thirst.
Rhyzkahl sprawled face down on a chaise lounge, an overturned goblet on the tiles beside his dangling hand. A silky white shift hugged the contours of his back, plastered by sweat. Ugh, he’d slept with my aunt! Though I dearly wished to confront him about that particular liaison, I restrained the impulse. I wasn’t sure if he knew about Idris’s parentage, and no way did I want to give him that info. Besides, I already had an agenda in mind.
“Hey, turdbucket!” I gave the couch a hard kick. “Wake up!”
Groaning, he opened his eyes. “Kara,” he said, voice thick.
I angled my head. “You feeling any better, puddingkins?”
He pushed himself up to sit, movements unsteady. Pain still creased his features, and though he appeared less hollow than before, it might have simply been a trick of the moonlight. Blinking heavily, he reached toward me as if to determine whether I was a dream or a dream. I allowed his fingers to brush my forearm before I backed away.
“Oh no, pookie bear,” I said with a fierce smile. “You’re going to have to pay for more of that.”
“Pay?” He leaned back into the pillows, brows knitted in confusion. “What do you mean, pay?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I regarded him. “I want the captives back.”
Though debilitated, he still managed a Rhyzkahl-frown. “What captives?”
My smile turned to ice. “You play stupid with me, I’ll leave and never come back.”
His frown vanished. “No. Stay.” He licked dry lips. “What do you want . . . specifically?”
I paced beside the balustrade, trailed my fingers over the ancient white stone as I took a moment to consider my words. “The people kidnapped on Earth and brought here against their will,” I said. “I want them sent to Mzatal to be returned home if they so desire—which he will determine.”
“What do you offer in exchange?” he asked, wary.
I gave him a sweet smile. “Break your nose again?”
Rhyzkahl shifted in the cushions. “If this is a serious proposition then there must be serious terms.” He watched me, eyes not as glazed as during my last visit though they still lacked their usual keen focus. “You care about these humans. Strike a true agreement, and you may recover them. Word games will not serve you.”
Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, I reminded myself. The demonic lords were, for all intents and purposes, demigods. Even dazed and feeling like shit, Rhyzkahl still possessed millennia of experience in bargains, negotiations, agreements—and backstabbing.
“Very well,” I said. “Let’s hammer out details.”
“Closer,” he said, beckoning with one hand.
My mouth pursed in distrust. I knew from the first dream visit that my proximity gave him clarity and relief. I took a single step toward him, and he shuddered like a jonesing junkie at the sight of a syringe of heroin.
“You want the captives,” he said. “Release the syraza, I release one human.”
I laughed. “No. That’s not going to happen. Eilahn stays with me.” It spoke volumes that he named her as his first negotiation point. As long as she remained on Earth, she drained potency from him. He needed to be free of the liability. Gee, too fucking bad. No way would I use Eilahn as a pawn.
“Two,” he said through gritted teeth. “Release her for two.”
“The trade of Eilahn is not on the table,” I said flatly.
“Then you have no great desire for the release of these humans,” he said, lifting one pale eyebrow.
He was going to play that lame-ass card? My shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I guess we have nothing more to discuss,” I said and thinned the dreamscape slightly as if about to leave.
His eyes widened. “Do not go!”
Yep, called that bluff. I held back a fist pump of triumph. “Why?”
“You know why.” Desperation shivered through his words. “I . . . am better able to touch the flows.”
Touch the flows. I understood his desperation. Zack had diminished Rhyzkahl’s existence when he broke the bond. For me, even the whisper-touch of the arcane in the dreamscape offered immeasurable comfort. Far worse for him, being near severed from the flows that had been integral to his life for millennia—and without Zack to support and guide him. I empathized with his plight, but it didn’t mean I felt sorry for him.
“Why should I care if you can touch the arcane or not?” I returned the dreamscape to its full texture and took another small step closer. “You’re not exactly my favorite person.”
Frustration coupled with annoyance flashed across his face. “I do not expect you to care,” he said. “You brought terms to the table.”
Good. Having to actually give a shit would be as much of a deal breaker as trading Eilahn. “All right,” I said with a lift of my chin. “Five minutes of basking in my glorious presence for each captive released.”
“Thirty.”
“Ha! Ten.”
“Ten . . .” His eyes dropped to my upper chest, “in contact with my sigil.”
Pulse pounding, I recoiled and pressed my hand over the scar—his mark—at the top of my sternum. “No!”
He lounged back in the pillows, pose non-threatening. “Seven, in contact with my sigil.”
Fuck. It was clear he knew how very much I wanted the captives released. But what benefit would touching the scar offer him? It wasn’t activated—only the twelfth held that dubious honor—yet at the same time I knew that none of the scars were fully quiescent. Or at least they hadn’t been before I lost the arca
ne.
“Two,” I said, though my stomach lurched.
“Five,” he said, whisper-soft.
Throat dry, I nodded. “Five. Captives to be released to Mzatal within one day of . . . completion of my side of the bargain.”
“Agree—”
“No!” I said, heart thundering. “I wasn’t finished.” A lie, but I’d caught a glint of triumph in his eyes that left me cold. What had I missed? Maybe I should withdraw from the dream to regroup and—
That was it! The dream.
“Far too hasty,” I said. “You will release captives to Mzatal within one day of completion of my side of the bargain. This agreement includes all human captives in the demon realm. One captive for each five minutes you have in contact with the sigil scar. In dreamspace. Not physically.”
His jaw tightened, which was all I needed to confirm I’d caught my error. Sick relief surged through me at the insanely close call. No way would I ever comply with a physical encounter, and with that gaping loophole the captives would never have been released—not without renegotiation from a weaker position. I’d almost betrayed myself with words as Seretis had warned.
“I do not have access to all captives,” he said.
I didn’t doubt it. In his condition, he’d be hard pressed to recover captives from the likes of Amkir or Jesral. But I’d take what I could get. “Not my problem. It means you have less time with this.” I pulled my collar down to show the sigil scar, willed it to glow blue in his dream.
He dropped his head back onto the cushions, looking truly weary and beat down. “Do we have an agreement?”
“Terms as stated before.”
“Agreed,” he said.
I still wasn’t certain I’d covered all possible loopholes, but as long as it stayed in dreamspace nothing bad could happen. To me, at least. “Agreed,” I said. “Do you have a captive here ready to release within a day?”
“Yes. Two.” He sat up straighter, eyes hungry. “Come close.”
Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) Page 29
