by Zoe Forward
The coat of Brant’s business suit lay neatly folded in his lap where his legs were loosely crossed. The foot of the crossed leg tapped impatiently in the air while he scrutinized a newspaper. He’d styled his thinning blond hair into a professional cut. None of this hid the overall lack of muscle development. Rangy thin and tall, his sunken cheeks added to the skull-like facial structure and prominent forehead. To his credit, he blended well with every other executive seeking a midmorning caffeine fix.
Shay slid into the chair opposite him, drawing his cruel hazel gaze.
Brant slowly folded the paper and placed it on the table. His eyes dwelled on her face for a few seconds. He pursed his lips with restrained dislike. “Shay. Wouldn’t have recognized you.”
She absently touched the bandage near her left eye. “Ran into a bit of trouble recently.”
“Can’t imagine you expect me to make amends.”
“No. I think you’d have enjoyed participating.”
A smile touched his lips. Jerk. He never changed.
He flipped his wrist and pulled back his cuffed sleeve, exposing a flashy silver piece. “I don’t have much time. What do you want?”
“What do you know about magik?”
Brant’s demeanor changed instantly from casual to alert. He uncrossed his legs and sat up. He looked around, carefully scanning his surroundings. “Why do you ask?”
Aaha! He definitely knew something. Now she had to give him a reason to talk. She was prepared. Slowly she peeled the bandage away from her face to reveal the slash marks.
“Seen anything that could do something like this?”
He didn’t respond as he stared at the scars.
The odd living tattoo crept toward her sleeve and peeked out, as if trying to glimpse Brant for itself. It then moved away from visibility and squeezed her arm, as if in warning. Its squeeze changed to a biting pain. It wanted her to leave. She bit her lip to suppress a groan and grabbed her arm. Somehow knowing it would hear her, she thought, I know he’s an evil shit. I just need the info. So, chill.
It eased its grip.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“Nothing. Just a cramp.”
“Why don’t you tell me what did that to your face? Then, maybe I can confirm if I’ve seen anything similar.”
Shay raised her eyebrows, questioning his game. “Someone told me it could’ve been a daemon.”
He paled and sucked in a breath. “And you lived?”
“Yeah, everyone seems so surprised about that. Are you going to tell me about them or continue the lemon-sucking impersonation?”
Brant remained mute.
“Are they evil?” Shay prompted.
A sly look passed briefly across his face before he replied, “Not evil. They’re just misunderstood spirits. Nothing to fear, if you know how to approach it.”
“Aren’t there people out there that try to kill them?”
“Did you see someone trying to kill it?”
Shay’s intuition advised she not mention her mystery warrior. The tattoo pinched her arm again in what she hoped was confirmation of that instinct. The glint in Brant’s eyes was the one she remembered from when he destroyed some small life while she was forced to watch.
Shay responded, “I didn’t see what happened to it and didn’t notice anyone challenging it. But legends say they’re not good. So, I would assume people desire to get rid of them.”
“The ones that try to slay them are the evil ones. I think you should come talk to my boss about this.”
“Why should I meet your employer?”
“He knows more than I do about those kinds of things.”
“Okay. When?”
“I can probably get you an appointment tomorrow morning. I’ll call you at your hotel to confirm.” Brant rose quickly and departed without waiting for her assent.
****
Dakar watched the clouds outlined in the moon’s glow beneath the plane. His innards twisted when the plane lurched for the third time in the past two minutes. Turbulence, he’d been told. Normal or not, he wanted off this flying suicide box. The plane heaved again. His stomach rolled. Yet, they were now below the clouds, and, thank the gods, must be en route to land.
Dakar asked, “How many of these planes do you have?”
Ashor glanced up from his electronic tablet where he was fingering through colorful screens. “Now that Nate downed another one, there are only two. We’ve got one on order.”
Dakar hadn’t made up his mind on the issue of helping with the daemon. They didn’t need him. With Khyan’s memory restored, he could easily defeat two daemons blindfolded. However, the deal Ashor laid out for him was he assist in exchange for a little side hop to Asheville. This had to be a test. To demonstrate his capabilities, even though he’d more than adequately proved his skills in South America. If not, then it was a desperate attempt to shove him back into the job he no longer felt obligated to resume.
“You think this girl in Asheville might be her? Shaiani? That she’s back?” Khyan asked in ancient Egyptian.
“Perhaps. I am not certain.”
Ashor scowled their way. “Ethan, level with me. What’s going on? Yesterday you sure as hell couldn’t speak whatever language the two of you keep yammering.”
“Dakar helped me remember things.” Khyan’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Got your mojo finally?”
“You could say that.”
“Good. Do I have to worry about you blowing up things like Nate for the next thirty years?”
Khyan’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “I should hope not.”
Ashor asked, “Dakar, has Ethan brought you up to speed with our current summoner?”
Dakar shrugged, his interest level low.
Khyan shook his head furtively at Ashor, getting a frown in return. He slid down in his seat as if he wanted to melt into invisibility.
“Who is your primary summoner these days?” Dakar asked, his gut clenching with an I-don’t-want-to-hear-this.
Ashor said, “It’s an ancient daemon who decided human possession was his ticket to remaining in this realm. He’s positioned himself as leader of a group of Hashishins calling themselves the Order of Assassins. This daemon is a vicious bastard who we’ve fought before by the name of Djoser.”
Dakar coughed when his lungs closed. He glared at Khyan. “’Tis not possible. Are you certain that’s its name?”
Ashor nodded.
Dakar slammed his fist into the chair next to him. “How did his minions summon him?” The questions pinging in his mind snapped together—puzzle solved. Djoser had escaped, which voided his contract to remain in the Middle Realm. How long had the gods kept him in that hell while Djoser cavorted out here?
Dakar scowled at Khyan. “When did you plan to tell me?”
Khyan shrugged. “Sorry, bro. The right time just didn’t come up.”
Dakar jumped forward and fisted Khyan’s shirtfront to demand eye contact. “Exactly how long has he been back?”
Khyan made a clicking noise and blew out a loud exhale.
Dakar yanked Khyan close. “How fucking long?”
Khyan pulled at Dakar’s fist. “This isn’t his first return while you’ve been gone.”
“What?”
“Let. Me. Go,” Khyan ordered.
Dakar released, pushing Khyan hard into his seat. Fury roared between his ears. He gritted out, “How many times has he been back?”
Khyan’s gaze touched Ashor’s before he replied, “He appeared earlier this century. We took him out, but he made a mess before we did. I have no memory before that.”
Ashor said softly, “There was a time even before that.”
“Thrice….” Dakar cursed as he collapsed into his seat. The depth of the gods’ betrayal shattered the scant remains of faith he’d retained that the gods were noble deities seeking to maintain balance between the worlds. And confirmed his newfound belief that they were self-cente
red, sadistic pricks. “They must’ve allowed Djoser out for entertainment. Assholes had to break their own rules to release him.”
“What do you mean?” Ashor asked.
“I soul-locked that evil shit to trap him in the Middle Realm over two centuries ago.”
Ashor whooshed out, “That’s forbidden.”
“Believe me, ’twas not my choice. Ma’at tricked me. Djoser was supposed to go to hell, and I was supposed to go wherever we go in the afterlife. Imagine my surprise when I discovered we do not get to finally travel to Osiris’s Kingdom when we soul-lock. No oblivion of peace. We go with them to the Middle Realm.”
“The Middle Realm?” Ashor echoed dully.
“Christ, Dakar…” Khyan trailed off.
“It’s a regular holiday paradise there. Everything stinks like they do. There is no sun. The land is all sand and inhabited by prickly reptiles. There’s nothing to eat and little to drink. Nothing likes us there. Just imagine the bitterest of sandy hells possible and then add in the joy of fighting daemons on their home ground. Forever. I will not volunteer for a repeat visit. Ever.”
Khyan’s face paled, and filled with remorse.
Dakar pointed at him. “Do not go there. Djoser has always been our greatest adversary. Someone had to do it. To try. I was scheduled to die anyway.” He rounded to Ashor again. “I assume that bloody Thutmose Treatise book you always obsess over is still around.”
Ashor nodded.
Dakar continued, “You need to add a section which states, if you soul-lock, you are cursed to go there. To the Middle Realm and fight daemons for eternity.”
Ashor stared in stony silence at Dakar while his front teeth ground back and forth. “Saying ‘that sucks’ probably won’t cut it.” Ashor looked to Khyan. “Can he use that sword the gods gave us a few months ago? The one none of us can touch without it burning us?”
“What sword?” Dakar asked, suspicious.
Khyan said, “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that too. Sorry. Ma’at gifted us the Sword of Neith. She said whoever could wield it could kill Djoser. Permanently.”
“Do you jest with me?” Dakar asked.
“No. It’s sitting in the safe at the estate. None of us can touch it.”
Dakar leaned back in his seat and whistled low.
“Well, can you use it?” Ashor asked.
“No. Its return to the human world means Draggon might be scheduled to return. He is the only one the sword obeys. That weapon is a force unto itself. Does what it wants when it wants, except if Draggon holds it.” Dakar’s gaze met Khyan’s. “The gods must be desperate to get rid of Djoser this time.”
“Draggon? He one of us?” Ashor asked.
“He was a magus, but not exactly good news. He was number eleven.”
“Eleven? There’s nothing written anywhere of more than ten of us.”
“He would be a well-kept secret. Most of us were relieved to see him pass into the afterworld or wherever the gods put him. I think the gods agreed after his one and only visit to this world, it was better he stay gone.”
Khyan muttered, “Djoser must be a more powerful shit than we think, if they’re willing to risk sending him back.”
****
Dakar hopped out of the rental SUV alongside Javen, Ashor, and Khyan. He watched the others load black-blade scimitars into sheaths at their backs, which they hid from prying eyes with dark coats. No reason to terrify the innocent humans with a bunch of gladiators running around with long swords. Of course, with Javen, his tats alone were vicious enough to put a chill in even the most courageous. The dark of night aided their quest for secrecy.
Khyan tossed a similar curved black blade at Dakar. “Took this one off the memorial wall. It’s the oldest one that’s survived. Your oldest. Should do. Know you’ll want to make a new one at some point.”
Dakar turned the blade in his hands and palmed the worn handle. The blade was spectacular. He had spent about a hundred years back in the B.C. era perfecting it, and then only used it for about thirty years before Shaiani killed him. The scimitar’s point of balance centered in the blade. He rotated the blade, which was the proper thickness to allow for perpetual sharpening. And the hilt measured perfectly from his wrist to elbow. He had bespelled the sword to always stay with the memorial wall.
The four entered the cathedral just as the bells tolled one a.m. As expected the cathedral was empty. Ashor had called ahead and warned the pastor. All high-level religious directors knew when a magus called they did what was requested or risked facing the manifestation of an evil they preached about.
Khyan slow-spun a three-sixty at the sanctuary’s entrance. The only light inside came from a few spotlights aimed to highlight the oversized stained glass. After one noticeable deep breath, Khyan waved his hand under his nose to intake more air. “Ahhhhh, the smell of slow-rotting shit. My favorite aroma.” His exhilarated laugh raised the hairs on the back of Dakar’s neck. That sound usually preceded some an act of lunacy. He loved his brother. Always had. Always would. But Khyan could be insane and impulsive when it came to imagining new ways to spice up daemon fights. The craziness had started a few centuries before his little vacation to purgatory land, when dispatching daemons back to their world got monotonous.
Khyan said, “Ashor and Jav, how about you let the two of us take care of this? Just hang back. Be ready to back us up, not that we’ll need it.”
“Gonna show us what you got?” Ashor asked.
“Sure.” Khyan laughed. He tossed his leather coat on the nearest pew and shrugged out of his T-shirt to bare his tattooed and scarred upper body. He rested his scimitar, still in its sheath, against the pew, clearly not planning to use it. “For old time’s sake, Dak…head or heart?”
Dakar groaned. “Not that. I refuse. Pick up your blade and let us do this normally.”
“How long you think this will take? Fifteen seconds? Less? I bet ten seconds.”
Dakar just shook his head, wishing Khyan didn’t have that delighted smile.
“All right. I call heart, then,” Khyan declared as he sauntered into the sanctuary. Halfway down the cathedral’s central aisle, he held his arms wide and in daemon language yelled in a sing-song voice, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Ready to play?”
Out of a red fog, a six-foot-tall hairless gray-skinned daemon took solid form.
Khyan smiled as if greeting an old friend. “Sithos, the super idiot. I could almost say I’ve missed you. Here’s a bull’s eye with your name on it.” He slow spun, demonstrating he was unarmed. He pointed at his chest and then tied his black T-shirt over his eyes as a blindfold.
“What the hell is he doing? Is he suicidal?” Ashor asked.
“He loves this,” Dakar said. “Did he never do this before I helped him remember?”
Javen shook his head. “Nope. Just got his ass kicked on a regular basis. Mostly a defensive fighter whose middle name was Lucky.”
Dakar blew the air from his lungs in a resigned sigh. “You two stay here. I will see this through.”
The daemon morphed into an ephemeral red mist and sped toward Khyan. It meant to enter Khyan’s body and seek possession. That sucked. Didn’t equal death since they had a healer that could exorcise it later, but it would hurt and ultimately damage Khyan’s soul more than it needed until they got him to Dr. Kira.
The goal was to dispatch the daemon before it entered his body. In the past, when Khyan played these games they won about ninety-eight percent of the time, but he bet Khyan was a tad rusty having been technically asleep for two centuries.
Dakar’s muscles tensed. And then he ran. He allowed his bochnori to take over. Power jolted his body. With the being’s energy thrumming through him, he was able to run up a column just behind Khyan. He flipped into the air over his brother in a gravity-defying move that only one with a bochnori protecting his body could do. He cast a spell that caused the daemon to fall out of its mist state, landing on its knees a few feet in front of Khyan.
&
nbsp; In a smooth move, Dakar cleaved the daemon’s head from its body seconds before his feet hit the ground. He tossed his sword into a high arc.
Khyan caught the sword, still blindfolded. He sprang forward to the headless body and landed a perfect mid-chest hit. The daemon dissolved into mist, and disappeared.
Khyan pulled the T-shirt off his eyes and laughed. “Damn, that felt good.”
Dakar shook his head in disapproval. “You lucked out. Sithos is slow and dim. Had that been one of the Paser brothers you would have been dead.”
Khyan pulled him into a brief one-arm man-hug and murmured low, “Good to have you back. None of the others are this much fun when it comes to daemons, even if that was ridiculously easy. We need someone to summon us up some Scottish daemons to give us a run for our money.”
“You’re mad,” Dakar gritted out, furious at Khyan’s lunacy. His heart still pumped fast. For the first time in a long time, he felt on the edge but lived for a purpose, even if that purpose was to make sure his brother didn’t walk his crazy ass right over the cliff into dead.
“What the hell was that? Who are you, and where did Ethan, the cautious obsessive-compulsive, go?” Ashor demanded. His neck veins pulsated with fury.
Khyan grinned widely. He held out his hand to Ashor for a shake. “Name is Khyan.”
Ashor stared at the hand. “Not Ethan?”
Khyan shrugged and retracted the offering. As he reclothed he said, “I’ve kind of been on autopilot for a few decades. Sleeping at the wheel, you might say. Dakar woke me up today. Hell, I’ve got memory from thousands of years of this business. Yeah, it’s got its advantages to have memory of the past, but the standard fight-and-behead thing became a yawn-fest centuries ago. So, I decided to mix things up. Gotta keep it fresh.”
“Khyan? Okay, whatever. But that in there was stupid risky.” Ashor pointed to the cathedral sanctuary.
“In all your incarnations, you’re always so damned uptight. I’d think now that you’re getting laid, you’d chill out a bit.”
“Don’t do it again. Like ever. If you two missed and that thing went possession on you, I really don’t want to see you Turning right now. That would be a lot of up-close time with a daemon. Soul-scarring to say the least. Trust me, I’ve been there. It sucks. We’re stretched way too thin as it is.”
