American Demon

by Kim Harrison

  Trent’s anger shifted to quick anticipation as he strode forward to pull more rock free. There was darkness beyond, and the sound of falling stone echoed in a small space.

  “Sa’han,” Quen protested, but his head was bowed and he looked beaten.

  “You don’t have to help, but you will stay out of the way,” Trent said, and with a resolved reluctance, Quen sat down. Shocked, I stared at the pain the older man was trying to hide, his expression riven as Trent pried more rocks to tumble from the opening. Quen was sitting down?

  “Quen?” Trent tried again, hope making his word soft, but Quen didn’t move.

  “There’s nothing in there but heartache. Don’t draw it into your future by disturbing it,” Quen said, catching Zack’s arm and pulling him back from the opening.

  Pulse fast, I met Trent’s eyes. The green of them held danger and drive, dropping to my core and setting something burning. Of course there would be heartache. Great knowledge always hurt. “Leno cinis,” I said softly, and Trent caught the blossoming globe of light as it formed.

  A cool breath smelling of stale Brimstone sifted from the opening, and I carefully picked my barefoot way through the rubble to peer into the new Brimstone-scented darkness. “I’m sorry, Quen,” I said, then followed Trent through the broken opening and into the dark, still air beyond.

  They were Trent’s mother’s rooms, and I wouldn’t let him go in there alone.

  CHAPTER

  27

  The darkness was warm and absolute as I picked my way over the broken stones, wincing at the sharp edges under my bare feet. I wasn’t going to take even five minutes to find my shoes. Fortunately, the farther I went, the smaller the shards got until there was only light grit between me and a slate floor. The light from Trent’s great room made a small spot of gray, doing nothing to light the silence broken only by the rasping of Jenks’s wings and Trent’s slow breathing.

  Not a hint of movement stirred the air. I funneled more energy into the globe, pushing back the dark to see that we were in a hallway. It looked like any other hallway I’d seen in Trent’s compound. Perhaps a little higher in the ceiling . . . maybe a little brighter color on the wall. The floors were slate tile—and now that we were away from the broken rock, clean.

  “No dust,” I said softly, hearing my voice come back flat of any echo.

  A door opened up onto what was probably an office. To the right, the hall dead-ended with two waiting room chairs and a table, but it continued on to the left. The light dimmed as Trent went into the office, his shoes faintly scuffing. I turned, my gaze drawn to the bright hole in the wall.

  “Oh . . . ,” I breathed, lips parting in awe at the original archway showing behind the stone wall of the fireplace. It was beautiful, the carved, polished wood lifting high with its smooth lines decorated with carved birds and twining branches that held dogwood blossoms. “Everything is clean,” I said as I breathed in the fading hint of Brimstone. “Is it a spell?”

  Trent came back, his expression hard to read with the globe of light in his hand. “It’s Quen,” he said. “He’s had a way in here all the time. I didn’t even know it existed until I pieced it together from her journals the other night. It’s right there in black and white. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Except perhaps there’s a ‘don’t see’ charm on it, like her spelling hut.”

  There was hurt in his voice. And betrayal. Worried, I looked at the fading pixy dust leading into the dark. “Jenks?” I called loudly, then wished I hadn’t as my voice came back in a hissing echo.

  “I remember someone having an office here,” Trent said as he came even with me and we continued forward. “I think it was Quen, or maybe Jonathan, but it could be used for anything.”

  Like a day nursery, maybe? I thought, recognizing a hint of anticipation in his voice. He needed space for Ellasbeth. Quen seemed certain that if she lived or worked in the Kalamack compound, then the elven enclave would listen to him.

  One word, I thought. Trent would have been a fool to ignore the chance to regain his political standing. I saw his frustration every day at the lack of invites to public events, the slow tapering off of interviews to nothing, the slights and snubs from people who’d once vied for five minutes of his time, each knowing that with one word he could change everything. It was gone. Because of me.

  “Guys!” Jenks shrilled from the dark. “You gotta see this! It’s like she just walked away!”

  Sounds promising, or really painful. Our pace quickened as we passed down the short hall, following Jenks’s voice. One side was mortared brick behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, the other held three-by-five photos. Trent glanced at them and continued on, and I reluctantly kept pace with him. There was a younger forest, a smaller stable, a pond that didn’t exist today. There was no research building, and the cars in the small lot were old models.

  “Did the baku’s thoughts give you any indication how to combine circles?” Trent asked when the hall ended and the light spilled out onto an open floor.

  I squinted into the dark, seeing the outlines of the room where Jenks had been, his silver dust slowly falling from a tall two-story ceiling. The space was longer than it was wide, and probably ran beside the pool, though now admittedly covered by that waterfall. “No. I remember a lot of anger when they pulled it out of its current host, and then they caught it in a free-floating circle,” I said. “It held for a while, but when Trisk and Quen shrank it down to physically put it in a bottle, it slipped through the spaces between matter and went back into its host. That’s when a group of humans—the Order, I guess—used witch magic to make its host a zombie, trapping it.”

  “Agnent.” Trent raised the globe and I obligingly funneled more energy into it until the light redoubled and we could see bricks where high windows had once let in the light.

  “Probably.” My head swiveled, trying to take it all in. These weren’t living quarters. It was a lab of some sort. “It would explain the zombies. They probably escaped when the lines went down a few months ago. The one Ivy and I caught looked about twenty years undead.” Which was an uncomfortable thought, because there was only one baku and at least six zombies. Either the Order had practiced on innocents, or their aim had been bad.

  Trent and I inched through the room following the sound of unseen pixy wings. A long, continuous workbench ran along the entire back wall, ley line equipment filling the cabinets above. Another bricked-up window sat before a smaller workbench, and I wondered if it would have looked out onto the pool. It reminded me of my mom’s spelling lab at Takata’s oceanside mansion, and a pang went through me. “Your dad bricked up all the windows,” I said.

  “And built a waterfall over them,” Trent added grimly.

  Somber, I dropped my gaze. Quen had said Trent’s mother and dad had hated each other, but that was not the feeling I’d gotten from the journals. Maybe it was a little hate and a little love both.

  “This would be an amazing place to work,” I said as Trent played the light over the long, empty room. But then my shoulders slumped. Ellasbeth. Change that outer office into a day nursery, and she’d never leave.

  “How do you mesh two circles?” Trent said, a determined slant to his jaw as he strode into the dark, the light pulling me into his wake. “They just don’t. I mean, that’s the entire point behind making them. Do you think the demons might know?”

  A hint of a tickle pricked through my toes, and I jerked to a halt before stepping into a huge circle inlaid on a massive, unbroken sheet of slate. Seating benches made a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc around it and I winced, imagining Al standing frustrated and peeved at its center, making deals with the intent to abduct Trisk if she made a mistake.

  “I very much doubt it,” I said as I crouched to take a closer look. “If they knew how to merge circles to capture the baku, they wouldn’t be hiding from it.” A quiver rose in my chi as my fin
ger met the old silver, and I pulled my hand back. It would be a fast circle invocation with such a base to work from: silver poured onto a slate floor with no cracks or seams.

  Trent cleared his throat impatiently and I rose. “I’m betting it was elven magic,” I said, wiping my hands on my jeans as we headed for the open door at the end of the room.

  Jenks darted out of the door, an odd green dust spilling from him. “I found the lights,” he said as he came to an abrupt halt before us. “I can’t trip them. I’m not heavy enough. There’s, like, no cameras down here, and it has its own ventilation.”

  “Helpful when you’re dealing with demons,” I said, thinking about the observation benches around that large circle.

  “I haven’t found how Quen is getting in here,” Jenks added. “Trent, wait until you see your mom’s office. It’s like she just stepped out for a coffee.”

  This is going to hurt. Stomach clenched. I dropped back to let him go first. He strode past me with a wash of spoiled cinnamon to leave me in the dark. I slowly followed, hesitating on the threshold.

  Trent stood before an ornate desk, the legs carved with flowering dogwood and birds. His head was bowed, and it looked as if he was struggling. Jenks perched on the antique lamp on one corner, his excitement gone as he probably realized how much this was hurting Trent. My globe was sitting beside an outdated computer and a desk pad dated nineteen eighty-nine. An ancient-looking keyboard and an even older intercom sat in a forgotten silence. Again, no dust.

  The wall facing the pool was entirely bricked up, but curtains hung at the outlines of a large sliding-glass door. A leather couch with pillows and a knitted throw stood against the wall across from the desk. Beside it were a matching chair and lamp. Two more walls were entirely bookcases filled with leather bindings.

  And the fading scent of coffee? I wondered, seeing an empty cup on the small table. Beside it was an ornate teacup. It was dry, the brown rings saying it had evaporated a long time ago. Twenty years? I wondered as I came forward, my bare feet finding a tight-pile rug as I put a hand around Trent’s waist and tugged him sideways into me. “You okay?”

  Nodding, he pulled away, his eyes on the desk.

  But he didn’t look okay as he reached for the photo propped up beside the pencil cup, his jaw clenching in obvious heartache. The woman had long dark hair, but the gleam in her eyes and the tight grip on the reins in her hand reminded me of Ceri. She was on an alert, ear-pricked silver horse. A little boy sat before her, no more than three. It had to be Trent, sweet in his riding outfit and scowling at the sun despite the hat. He was thin and gaunt, and I recognized the look of one who had been in and out of the hospital too often. Two more boys sat on their own ponies beside her, healthy and strong, their pride obvious.

  “Trent,” I said in awe, and he seemed to shake himself back to life. I hadn’t known his mom was a dark elf. No wonder there were no other photos of her. No wonder Quen had been in love with her.

  Hand shaking, Trent set the photo down. “You want to check the books?” he said, voice throaty as he began pulling open drawers.

  I hesitated, then went to the shelves, not sure how much sympathy he wanted. “Sure. Her missing journals have to be here somewhere.” But as I began to run a finger down the spines, my hope faded. They were all textbooks—outdated and pretty much useless.

  I turned when the shadows shifted. Trent’s head was bowed and his fingertips pressing into his forehead. A shudder rippled through him, and when Jenks’s dust paled, I came over. “Trent . . .”

  “I’m okay,” he said as he stepped past my reaching hand to go to the bookshelf. “Jenks, where was that light switch?”

  The pixy rose up, somber and quiet. “It’s over here.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, though I was loath to turn them on and bring everything under sharper scrutiny. Jenks was hovering beside an obvious switch, and wincing, I flicked it on. But only the lamp on the desk lit, bathing everything in a soft, warm glow. Satisfied, I let my hold on the ley line go, and my globe of light on the desk vanished.

  “Oh, look at the rug,” I said in awe as I realized it was an elaborate yin and yang of embroidered swirls and swoops holding the shapes of birds and insects.

  Silent, Trent continued down the shelves with methodical precision. His back was stiff, and the scent of spoiled cinnamon was growing stronger.

  “What’s in there?” I said as I noticed the door just off the bricked-up sliding-glass doors.

  “Bathroom,” Trent said, not turning. “I think I remember going from the pool to her office to use it once instead of the one we were supposed to. My dad was angry, but Mom—” His voice broke, and I slumped, wondering if he’d ever said the word in his entire adult life. “Mom gave me a hug and told me to use it whenever I wanted,” he continued, his voice thready and his back to me as he pretended to read the spines. “I remember being scared that I’d get in trouble for getting her wet when she gave me a hug and told me it was okay.” Head bowing, he fisted his hands.

  “Damn my father for erasing my memory of her,” Trent whispered. “I was ten when she died. Ten years of memories would have been enough.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Eyes welling, I went to him, curving my arms around him from behind and resting my head on his back. I felt his breath shudder inside him, and I turned him in my arms, holding him as he struggled. His hands shook as they slipped about my waist, and he exhaled.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you,” he whispered.

  And then Jenks snapped his wings in warning.

  Adrenaline was a quick pulse through me, and we parted at a soft scuff at the door.

  It was Quen. Worry stiffened my spine as he halted on the threshold. His shoulders were hunched, his always upright mien having dissolved into heartache. His nose had stopped bleeding, and the obvious pain in his expression said this was hurting him, too. But for a different reason.

  “I come here once a year,” he said, his gaze going to the couch and the empty coffee cup. “On the day she died,” he added, voice breaking. “I promised her I would destroy it so you wouldn’t follow in her footsteps. You had a knack, you see.” He hesitated, steadying himself. “But when your father bricked it up, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought . . . I thought if you never found it, my promise would be good. Trent—”

  “You selfish bastard,” Trent interrupted, his steps anger-fast as he snatched up the photo on the desk and brandished it. “How could you keep this from me? Where are her missing journals?”

  Quen hesitated, his torn confusion clearing at Trent’s harsh demand.

  “Where are they!” Trent shouted.

  Slowly Quen pulled himself upright. He stood on the threshold, his past with Trent behind him, his future uncertain before him. “I don’t know,” he said, voice steady. “But they aren’t here. It doesn’t matter. I may not remember what we did, but I do remember it didn’t work. You can’t maintain two merged circles to make a stronger one. If you could, we wouldn’t have failed. Sa’han—”

  “Get out of my sight,” Trent ground out from between his teeth.

  I jumped when Jenks dropped to my shoulder, his green dust reflecting his uncertainty. I knew I was. Uncertain, that is. Quen had practically raised Trent after his father died, but I’d always gotten the impression that Quen had held himself apart, seeing to the task of giving Trent the tools to survive . . . but not what he might have emotionally needed.

  And Quen . . . bowed his head, turned, and walked away.

  CHAPTER

  28

  “Are you okay?” I asked Trent. It was the third time in about five minutes, but he was clearly not handling this well. I could feel Trisk’s presence everywhere. It was everything he’d been made to forget, everything that his father hadn’t wanted him to be: compassionate, understanding, tolerant.

  “I’m fine,” Trent
whispered, but as I watched, he slowly sank to the floor, his back to her desk and his knees bent. One hand held the photo of her to his chest, the other traced a swirl on the carpet as if it were a touchstone, bringing back a childhood memory. “Her horse’s name was Inertia,” he whispered, looking miserable as his fingers stilled and he closed his eyes. “Because she never wanted to stop. I remember . . . but not enough,” he finished brokenly.

  I gave Jenks a head nod to go make sure no one else was lurking in the dark, listening, and he hummed away, his dust a somber orange. Slowly I sank down beside Trent, feeling his warmth where our shoulders touched. There was another circle here. I could feel it humming just under the carpet. It wasn’t there to spell in. No, it was there for defense. Against what? I wondered. Al, should he escape? Her husband that she both loved and hated?

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and Trent found my hand. His breath slipped out, and I let my head drop onto his shoulder. Slowly he set his mother’s picture down to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering as if needing the reassurance that I was there.

  “Hodin shifted your aura. Twice now,” he said, surprising me with where his thoughts had gone. But he was good at hiding his grief behind work. “If our auras were the same—I mean, exactly the same—maybe our circles could mesh, seeing as it’s our auras that define them.”

  “That’s a good thought.” I lifted our twined hands and kissed his knuckle.

  “All we have to do is lure the baku out of Landon, catch it in a meshed circle, shrink it down, and drop it in a bottle,” Trent added.

  I turned our clasped hands over to see Hodin’s ring. “You want me to call him? He’s going to want something ridiculous for payment.”