“I’ll keep my phone on me,” I said. With a weary goodbye, he hung up.
I clicked on his third email—an aerial view of downtown Beaulac—then stared at the impossible image. The area of devastation wasn’t roughly circular or any other shape the mind could accept as possible through natural means. The police department and its valve sat smack dab in the middle of an eleven-pointed star a half mile across, with lines of destruction as clear as if they’d been stamped out with a cookie cutter.
Heartsick, I closed the laptop. There’d be time the next day . . . or the next . . . to see what the media, doomsayers, and government did with this. Demons. Arcane bombs. Untouchable crystals. Star-shaped earthquakes. Anomalies. Teleporting people. Baby dragons.
Baby. Shit. Knight and the twelfth. Ashava, not the sigil on my back. I’d forgotten all about that. Seemed trivial compared to everything else. I retrieved my journal from the bedroom, sat at the kitchen table, and flipped to the dog-eared page with Knight’s warning.
Twelve. The twelfth is a radical game changer. Spawned of fierce cunning. Beauty and power exemplified. Beware the twelfth.
My heart pounded as I read it. It took on a whole different meaning when referring to a person rather than my sigil. But Ashava had connected to the twelfth sigil at the PD. I found the page with the invocation Szerain spoke when he created the twelfth sigil on my lower back the night of the plantation battle. It had been part of saving me from becoming Rowan—weaponized summoner and thrall of the Mraztur. But clearly there was more to it.
Vdat koh akiri qaztehl.
Infinite resources to the all-powerful demonic lord unfettered.
I flipped back and forth between the two pages as I drew the clues together. Trembling, I slammed the journal closed and shoved it across the table.
Eleven plus one is twelve.
All-powerful demonic lord.
Not the sigil. Not Szerain. Eleven lords. Plus one.
The twelfth lord.
“And her name is Ashava,” I murmured.
Ramifications jangled in terrifying cacophony. Ashava was the child of a demahnk and a human. Did the same hold true for the other lords? Eleven demahnk. Ptarls. Guardians. Advisors.
Parents?
Demonic lord unfettered. Ashava. Perhaps she’d be able to think what she wished without fear of excruciating headaches. I already knew she could shapeshift. My heart lurched. Were all of the lords shapeshifters bound to a single form? And, if so, was it the Demahnk Council who had crippled them? Their own offspring? I brought my hand to my mouth, sickened.
And Szerain. He had to have known when he forged the sigil on my lower back that Ashava was a demonic lord. Was the sigil to help him, to help her, or to bind her into an alliance before she was even born? If he knew what she was, that meant he also knew his own parentage—which seemed impossible in light of the headache punishment for forbidden knowledge. But . . . maybe that was part of the reason the demahnk exiled and imprisoned him on Earth. Uncontrollable.
Too much to think about, and no sure answers at hand. I went to the sink and ran cold water, splashed my face and pressed cool fingers over my eyes. Let it go for now. Take a hot shower. Get some sleep. Lay it all out tomorrow. Yeah, deal with it later. Along with everything else.
Exhaustion gripped me as I dried my face and hands, so much that I almost missed the glow in the backyard. Frowning, I peered out the window. It emanated from the nexus—which had never glowed before. That much I was sure of.
I slipped out the back door and down the steps. The silvery pattern in the obsidian emitted a soft and natural radiance, like a myriad of luminous fish at the surface of a dark sea. A dozen feet from the slab, I halted and looked down, skin prickling. A five-foot wide swath of trampled grass ringed the nexus, with yet another five feet of untouched grass between slab and swath—as if someone had paced around and around the nexus for hours in a defined orbit, never straying from it.
My pulse quickened as I looked toward the far side of the slab. Standing with his back to me was a barefoot figure wearing nothing but a simple white shift. Tall. Broad-shouldered. White-blond hair.
Rhyzkahl. Like I needed this shit. Baring my teeth, I drew my gun. Not a pointless gesture with him diminished. If he’s still diminished, I silently warned myself. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Tensing, he spun as if startled—which made no sense considering the lordly mind-reading talent. He eased as he took in the sight of me then sauntered in my direction with the unhurried pace of a second hand around a clock. Yet I didn’t miss how he maintained his distance from the nexus and never stepped out of the band of trampled grass. Wary but curious, I backed away from the swath and kept my gun trained on him.
With a quarter of the circle remaining between us, he stopped and glared at me. Potency burns marred the left side of his face and hand, and the glow from the nexus revealed soot and grass stains on his silky white robe, along with a few streaks that appeared to be dried blood. His hair was still finger-length, but more sexy-tousled than bed-head now. Though my own attraction to him was non-existent to the point of revulsion, I could appreciate that he would always have that God Of Sex vibe to him.
“You have been industrious,” Rhyzkahl said with a disdainful flick of his fingers toward the new and improved nexus.
“You like?” I said, smile tight. “I’m taking an art class at the Vo-Tech. That’s my senior project.” I angled my head. “Why are you tromping around my backyard like a homeless romance-novel cover model?”
Frustration skimmed over his face, but he schooled it into a haughty sneer. “Why should I not? I find this mockery of a nexus amusing.”
I lowered my gun and holstered it. “You want to take it for a spin?” I asked, watching him. “Be my guest. Go ahead and hop on up there.”
His lifted his right hand as though he wanted to strangle me with it, fingers stiff, and palm marred by a deep burn. “I choose not to.”
“Pussy,” I said.
Rhyzkahl dropped his hand as he grappled for a response. “I cannot,” he finally said through gritted teeth.
I folded my arms over my chest and paced beside the swath toward where he stood. Two planets in different orbits. “You can’t touch the nexus,” I stated, “but you can’t leave it either.” I stopped and regarded him as a theory coalesced. “Mzatal trapped you.”
Rhyzkahl put on his scowly-haughty mask, but his eyes betrayed his fear. “He is anathema,” he spat.
“To you, yes.” I looked toward the woods and the pond trail then back to the orbit of trampled grass. “Mzatal’s gone hard core and kicked you out of the demon realm.” I said, piecing clues together. Rhyzkahl’s shoulders stiffened, confirming my hunch. Tapping my chin with one finger, I considered. “Because you weren’t pulling your weight?” I shook my head. “No. You were fucking up the balance. That’s why your realm kept getting more than its share of anomalies.” I chuckled as a muscle worked in his jaw. “You were like a black hole warping the fabric of space and time with no Zakaar to stabilize you, so Mzatal drove you to the valve,” I gestured to the potency burns on his face and hand, “and chained you here.” Not only that, Rhyzkahl couldn’t read me. Of that, I was certain. “Do I have it right? Mzatal gave me a pet lord?”
Rhyzkahl took a threatening stride to the edge of his orbit. “I am not your pet,” he snarled, vein throbbing in his forehead when I didn’t flinch.
“You just need to be tamed, that’s all,” I said with a soft laugh, delighted at the outrage and denial that bristled in his stance. I was probably enjoying this way too much, but I needed it after the day I’d endured. I glanced up at the sky. “It’s supposed to rain later tonight. If you’re a good boy, I might give you a blanket.”
Rhyzkahl made an inarticulate sound as I walked away, but I didn’t look back. As soon as Idris and Pellini came home, we were going to barricade that damn valve by the pond. I didn’t care how exhausted we were. No more surprise guests.
I
continued inside and to the bathroom, stripped off my clothing and, finally, indulged in the searing hot shower I’d longed for since my arrest. I shampooed my hair three times, scrubbed every inch of my body with the loofah, then closed my eyes, stood under the spray, and let my mind empty.
Eventually, I felt clean and renewed on a number of levels. After drying, I wrapped a towel around me and padded to my room, pulled on shorts and a plain t-shirt then descended into my basement.
Idris’s duffle lay in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the futon, along with a pile of dirty clothing. Ryan’s belongings occupied the dresser and table, but I had a feeling they’d never be retrieved. Szerain still maintained the Ryan persona, but for how long? A pang of loss whispered through me. The Ryan I’d laughed and cried with was gone forever. I never got the chance to say goodbye.
The cigar box that held my summoning implements rested on the oak table. I opened the lid, let the comforting scents wash over me, then lifted the knife out. Edge keen and bright, hilt as familiar as my own hand. For over a decade my identity had been wrapped up in the contents of this box and everything it represented.
Summoner. Arcane practitioner. Powerful. Special.
I replaced the knife in the box, closed it and carried it upstairs. In the laundry room, Fuzzykins lay on her side in a nest of towels while her kittens eagerly nursed. She gave me a soft brrrump and only one dubious look when I pulled down the ladder to the attic. As soon as things settled a bit I’d coordinate with Idris to send the cats to the demon realm.
Though my last trip to the attic had been several years ago, the single light bulb still worked and filled the dusty space with clear, white light. My attic had a sturdy floor and shelves that held a miscellany of items once deemed worth saving and mostly never touched again. I found an empty spot next to a stack of old board games with missing pieces and tucked the cigar box into it. No grief or regret or sadness welled. The box and its contents were mementos worth treasuring, but I was more than a mere summoner or arcane practitioner. I had skills and savvy and experience. Powerful. Special. I was Kara Gillian, damn it.
A few minutes of searching turned up the pop-up hiking tent I’d bought on a whim half a decade ago and used exactly zero times. I climbed down the ladder and headed to the kitchen, dropped fruit and cheese into a resealable plastic bag, grabbed a bottled water, retrieved two blankets from the linen closet, then carried everything to the backyard.
Rhyzkahl frowned as I chucked the food, water, and blankets onto the trampled grass near him. I pulled the tent out of its bag—relieved when it popped into shape as advertised—then slid that into his “orbit” as well.
“You might want to put the blankets in the tent so it doesn’t blow away,” I said, calm and settled. “Oh, and don’t mistake my mercy for weakness.”
He regarded the tent with scorn and barely hidden uncertainty. “I do not mistake your weakness for mercy.”
“You can be an ass if you want, but be aware there’s no one else here who would show you a fraction of this weakness.”
“You expect me to ingratiate myself to you?” His mouth twisted in a sneer, but I sensed that he clung by his fingernails to what little stability he had.
“No,” I said. “I gave you food, water, and shelter because I have no desire to make anyone suffer.” I paused. “Even you. But I want to be sure you understand that, if you fuck with me or anyone I care about, you’re going to be sleeping in the rain and eating bugs.”
He turned his back to me and stalked off. Good. Glad that was settled. As soon as he was a quarter of the circle away, I looked toward the nexus. The glow rippled as if beckoning me forward, and I was happy to oblige.
Unfortunately, I’d underestimated Rhyzkahl’s desperation. The instant I reached the middle of the trampled grass, he spun and charged me, face vicious. Though his powers were diminished, his lordly speed was not, and before my brain registered the danger, he’d closed half the distance.
I’m fucked. The thought flashed through my head as my human-slow reflexes kicked into gear. Rhyzkahl reached a hand toward me like a claw, ten feet away, five, two—
Blue-white lightning lanced from the edge of the slab to Rhyzkahl, spiderwebbing over his body in an instant. He cried out in agony and fell back, writhing as the arcane power crawled over him.
I drew a shaky breath. Of course Mzatal would think of everything. “Thanks, Boss,” I murmured. As soon as my pulse slowed to a less frenetic pace, I continued to the slab. The moment my foot touched the stone, the lightning vanished, leaving Rhyzkahl twitching on the grass. I ignored him and gave the nexus my full attention.
The surface appeared smooth as glass, the silvery strands perfectly flush with the obsidian. I froze at the edge of the slab as nightmarish memories stirred.
Endless black glass plane. Tilting. Rhyzkahl’s voice. Elinor. Identity slipping. Confusion. Rowan. Fear. Cold. So cold.
No. I shook my head to dispel the memories. Warmth. Solid footing. Wholeness. Rhyzkahl, bound.
Mzatal’s silvery mark repeated in uncountable fractal patterns in the black glass. I smiled a smile that began in my core and worked its way out to fill my entire being. “Kara Gillian.” My name, rich and full on the night air.
Like balmy beach sand, the nexus called to me. I stripped off my shoes and tossed them to the grass, breath catching as pleasant warmth radiated through my bare feet to my knees. The silvery filigree of the sigils shimmered like liquid starlight, and in the center of the nexus the delicate outline of a circle flared a brighter silver-white, captivating. I took a step toward it then flinched in surprise as the strands within the six foot circle went dark. No. More than dark.
Gooseflesh shivered over my skin as I approached the circle. I knew that utter darkness. What seemed like a lifetime ago, I faced the maw of the void atop the basalt column in Mzatal’s realm and clung to the stone like a lost kitten in the rain.
The void can consume the resolve of even the most stalwart. Mzatal’s words.
I swallowed. The darkness whispered to me, tugged at my essence. Unknown. Unfathomable.
“Turn away. There is no shame in it.” Rhyzkahl’s voice rippled through me like gossamer silk. Gentle. Persuasive.
Wise to flee the black. Easy to turn away.
“No.” My voice rang out clear and strong. Sweat pricked my armpits. Mzatal’s sigils warmed the soles of my feet. I sank to my knees beside the circle, leaned over and gazed into the lightless void. No frightened kitten this time. I extended both hands, lowered them toward the surface.
“Kara! Do not touch it.”
I hesitated an inch from the black, trembled. “You will not consume my resolve,” I told the darkness. “I am Kara Gillian!” My palms met warm obsidian. Pitch black gave way to the shine of stone.
Rhyzkahl made a strangled sound behind me.
Silver-white filigree sprang into glowing life within the circle. A multitude of Mzatal’s sigils and . . .
I scrambled to my feet for a better vantage. Barely discernible contours of a human figure spread-eagled like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man—except with the curves of a woman. The interweave of a different sigil defined her subtle shape. As I took it in, her sigils shimmered brighter. Her sigils. My sigil. I honed in on one, followed its lines with my eyes, felt it resonate with my essence.
Laughter. Mine.
I stepped into the circle, lay on my back, aligned with the figure. Arms stretched out to my sides, hands at the level of my crown. Legs straight, feet wide apart.
The starry canopy of the night sky swam above, and the nexus floated me in its lustrous glow. The weariness of the day slipped away. The vibration in my bones eased to a soft hum. Rhyzkahl’s scar at the top of my sternum cooled. A tingle rose from below, surged through me, and the world burst into colors too vivid to be real. Potency flows like rivers of subtle light. Energy that flickered through the treetops and swirled in the air.
Sitting up, I stared in wonder as every plant, every in
sect, every creature—everything shone with its own signature of potency.
Rhyzkahl cursed in demon. I grinned and called potency to my hand, gathered it into a searing ball on my palm. I understood the first layer of what Mzatal had wrought. On the nexus, the arcane was mine. And more than othersight—lordsight. A lord’s powers, with Rhyzkahl as my battery. An ingenious ritual tethered him to me, and I laughed in delight as I took in the whole of it. Rhyzkahl had insisted on connecting with his sigil scar while in dreamspace, and now he was bound to that very sigil.
Mzatal had more use for him. I could feeeeel it, but the reason evaded me. Revenge with purpose.
Rhyzkahl stood in his orbit, posture rigid, and wearing his best pissed-off face. I spun the potency in my hand and smiled at him. “It must kill you that Mzatal outwitted you to this extent.”
He drew breath to respond, but I raised a barrier of potency between us and cut him off. My own brand of privacy fence. I dissipated the charge in my hand into a thousand iridescent sparks, then eased onto my back again and gazed up at the night sky. It didn’t bother me one bit that I had the arcane only on the nexus. I’d take it as the precious gift it was.
And, off the nexus, I’d kick ass in all other ways. Kara Gillian style.
The moon skimmed the trees, full save for a slim crescent of shadow. To the north, stars shimmered through the muggy night in defiance of the moon’s intrusion. Lightning flashed to the south and rumbled the promise of a coming storm. My gaze drifted between stars and moon, to the potency that danced through the atmosphere, and I reveled in the moment.
A meteor speared across the sky and vaporized in a flash above me. In the shadow of its absence, a trick of light and imagination floated for a heartbeat—a dragon black as the void, with wings outstretched and eyes of silver starlight.
Glossary
Terms Related to the Demonic Lords
Demon Realm and demon language: The world of the demons and demonic lords. The demon language has never been fully mastered by a human because of the verbal complexity and telepathic component. The same sound may have a multitude of different meaning depending on the telepathic pattern behind it. The demon word for their world is heavily telepathic and seventeen syllables.
Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) Page 39
