Fury of the Demon

Chapter 12

We made it home without further incident. I parked and got out, opened the back door to let Eilahn carry Thatcher inside. I watched her go in, Paul trailing her, then took Mzatal’s hand as he got out of the car.

“Boss,” I said softly. “You’re drained.” I looked up at him with deep concern.

He gave a weary nod. “I will go to the confluence now,” he said, starting to walk around the house. “It will help.”

I tightened my hold on his hand as we walked. “It won’t be enough. You need to return.” I hated it, but I didn’t want him to overextend or get hurt, either due to the drain itself or by being ambushed by a hostile lord upon his return to the demon realm more depleted than he already was.

“I will rest,” he said again, shook his head. “It is too soon to leave.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I said, turning to face him as we reached that spot in the backyard. “But I’d rather kick you off Earth than see you do yourself lasting damage.”

Exhaling, he sank to his knees in the grass, then shifted to sit cross-legged. I crouched before him and kissed him. “What’s the deal with Paul?” I asked, changing the subject. There was only so much arguing I could do with Mzatal. “You said he was coerced into working for Farouche by that fear. Is he a prisoner?”

“I do not know more of his status with Farouche,” Mzatal told me, expression darkening. “He carried deep, pervasive fear of the man and of the consequences of betraying him.”

My knees began to ache, so I plopped down cross-legged. “Is his devotion to Thatcher also influenced or implanted by Farouche?”

“The attachment to Bryce Thatcher seems genuine, beloved,” Mzatal said. “It continues even though I have unwound the compulsion.” His brow creased. “Paul was at war with himself, both wanting and not wanting to return to this Farouche. He found a deep sense of security and fulfillment in Farouche’s service, even though it carried with it a strong undercurrent of fear.”

I carefully mulled all of this over, including the very selfish consideration that Paul and his apparent genius hacker computer skills could be really useful to us. “Thatcher needs a lot more healing, doesn’t he?”

“He does. I will continue after I rest.”

Seriously? Mzatal had to be the stubbornest lord ever. “No, Boss,” I said. “I think that after you rest you should return to your realm and take those two with you.” I took a deep breath, fixed him with a hard look. “That will allow you to recharge, Thatcher to get completely healed, and will keep Paul away from Farouche for a couple of days—hopefully long enough for us to figure out what the real deal is.”

“I will rest,” Mzatal replied, but before I could open my mouth to argue with him again he added, “and then I will reassess.” He took my hand, stroked his thumb over the cracked stone of my ring. “We have no information on Idris,” he said, the ache in his voice palpable.

I lifted my hand and kissed his fingers. “I know.” I gave him a slight smile. “Why the hell do you think I want to get a hacker on our side?”

His eyes met mine, and I saw him read the implications from me. “Ah, I understand.” He considered it, gave a slight nod. “Useful, yes.”

“You’ll do it? You’ll go home and take them with you?”

“I will reassess after I rest. Soon.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d reassess upside his head if he didn’t get the hell home and recharge properly. “Of course, darling,” I said with a sweet smile. I knew damn well he’d read those thoughts. “I’ll go in and check on our guests now.” I gave him a parting kiss, then stood and headed inside.

Eilahn had situated Thatcher on the bed in the guest room where Zack had been staying. She’d stripped and bagged his gear and bloody clothing and wrapped him in a sheet. Paul sat on a stool beside the bed, clutching Thatcher’s hand. I stopped in the open doorway, leaned against the jamb.

“Lord Mzatal will take care of him,” I said gently. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t get it,” Paul said, voice carrying his fatigue and worry. He looked over at me. “How is this possible? Who is he? Who are you?”

“I’m Kara Gillian,” I told him. This part, at least, was easy. “I used to be a homicide detective with the Beaulac Police Department.” Now came the not so easy part. Then again, this kid had already seen some miracles, so maybe it would go over all right. “I’m also an arcane practitioner,” I continued. “I have the ability to open a portal between this world and another and summon its denizens through it. Lord Mzatal is a qaztahl, one of eleven lords of that world.” I stopped to let that sink in.

He stared at me. “Another world?”

I nodded. “It sounds pretty crazy, I know. But, then again, you’ve seen that arcane power truly exists.” I lifted my chin toward his friend on the bed.

Paul gulped, looked down at his hand in Thatcher’s. “Yeah. Miracle. He was almost . . .” His face paled as he choked on the word. Dead.

“He’s going to be okay,” I repeated. I wanted to emphasize the hell out of that. I tilted my head and regarded him. “How long have you worked for StarFire and Mr. Farouche?”

“Um,” he darted his eyes around the room nervously, as if wishing someone else could answer the question for him. “About a year,” he finally said.

“Cool.” I gave him a friendly smile. This was nothing more than two people chatting, shooting the shit, getting to know each other. Nice and casual. “You like working for them?”

A variety of emotions crawled across his face, running the gamut from wonder to fear. “It’s, um, good work for me.”

Nice way to not answer the question. “How’d you get the job with them?”

His face paled, and he hunched his shoulders. “Recruited,” he said though it was almost more question than statement.

I took a step into the room, met his eyes. “Forcefully?”

Panic whispered through his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. “Force?” His voice shook on the word, but then he took a breath and eased as though a nightmare slipped away. Lingering echoes of the Farouche influence, perhaps.

“How did they get you, Paul?” I asked quietly as I moved farther into the room. “Did they coerce you by threatening someone else, someone close to you? Or did they simply grab you in the night and put you to work?”

He looked away, shoulders slumping and misery written into his face. “No threats,” he said in a low voice. “They came and took me. No warning.”

The poor guy looked so beaten down, bewildered and torn. “Paul, we can help you.”

“I just need Bryce to get better.”

“He’s still in bad shape, Paul,” I said. “He needs the kind of healing the lord can only do in his own world.” I touched his shoulder. “Would you be willing to go with your friend to that other world for a day or two? He needs it, and it would also give you more time to decide how you want to live the rest of your life.”

He stared at me in baffled shock, clearly trying to figure out if what he thought he heard me say was really what I’d said. “You mean not on Earth?”

“Right,” I said. “Not Earth. The other world. You’d be safe there, under the lord’s protection.”

His eyes went distant. “That’s the only place we’d be safe from Big Mack,” he murmured.

“You need to be safe, Paul. Give yourself this time.”

He focused on me again, confusion and hope and fear in his face. “I need Bryce to get better,” he repeated, voice steadying as he seemed to come to a decision. “He’s my best friend. He . . . saved me.” His chin lifted as he straightened. “Okay. Yes.”

Relieved, I gave him a smile. “It’ll be about two hours,” I told him. “Lord Mzatal is resting right now.” I suddenly realized Paul was still wearing the same blood-soaked clothing. “Damn. You need a change of clothes and a bandage on that arm. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” I left the room without waiting for a response, headed to my bedroom, and grabbed an old PD t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants that I had a feeling would fit him perfectly, as slim as he was. On the way back I detoured to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit, a towel, and a wet washcloth.

“Here you go,” I said as I returned. I set the shirt and sweats on top of the dresser. “Go ahead and take that mess off,” I gestured to his bloody shirt, “and I’ll get your arm fixed up.”

Paul looked oddly discomfited. “Um, maybe you can do it if I just pull the sleeve up?” He reached over and began to awkwardly roll up his sleeve above the shallow wound.

I gave him a withering look and cocked an eyebrow at him as I pointedly raked my gaze over his blood-soaked clothing. “It’s a mess,” I stated firmly. “I’d need to soak it for a week in meat tenderizer to get the blood out. Off with it.”

He swallowed, but went ahead and pulled the shirt off to reveal a roadmap of scars on his torso. I pygahed to keep my face expressionless. Three surgical scars along his spine, and two abdominal, including one that started at his solar plexus and disappeared into the top of his pants. Another half dozen irregular scars were scattered randomly, perhaps a result of the injury or accident that had necessitated the surgeries.

“Let’s get the dried blood off first,” I said, very matter-of-factly. I folded the wet washcloth and began to carefully wipe where Thatcher’s blood had soaked through Paul’s shirt and crusted on his torso. He stood silently, not resisting and not looking at me. “Any of these areas still cause pain?” I asked, remaining as clinical as possible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Um, my back does some,” he said, eyes still averted, “but not you touching like this.”

“Good to know.” I did my best to get the blood cleaned off while I worked around the numerous scars. Some were still red and obviously tender, while a couple had the whiter shade of an older scar, with others falling along a spectrum in between. He’d obviously gone under the knife quite a few times. “Are you done with surgeries or do you still need more?”

“I’m done,” he said quietly. “They said they can’t do anything else until there’s degeneration later.” He exhaled a sigh.

I shifted my attention to the shallow wound on his left arm. It had pretty much stopped bleeding, but was a sticky mess. Didn’t look like it needed stitches though. “Lord Mzatal can probably fix up any lingering issues,” I said while I gently dabbed at clotted blood. “He fixed me up when I was a bloody mess.”

Paul looked at me for the first time since taking his shirt off. “You were a bloody mess?” His brow furrowed, eyes skimming over me as if trying to find the signs of it. “What happened?”

Mouth tightening, I finished cleaning the wound and set the washcloth down, then stepped back and pulled my shirt up to right below my bra, revealing the sigil scars on my torso. Paul sucked in a gasp as his eyes went to the scars and their horrific beauty. Cold prickled over me as the memory of the unnatural pain shifted, fighting to rise up and wash over me from where I’d shoved it down.

“These were cut into me by an arcane blade while I hung from my wrists bound behind me,” I said, voice flat and toneless. “Both shoulders dislocated, fractured cheekbone, and cuts like this all over my torso, front, back, and sides, from the nape of my neck to my tailbone.”

He swallowed audibly. “Oh my god.”

I let my shirt fall back in place and fixed my gaze on him. “Your turn. What’s your story?”

Grief and shame clouded his eyes. “I . . . got beaten up. It was pretty bad.”

Pretty bad? That was the understatement of the millennium judging by his scars. Had Farouche done this to him?

No, I decided after a bit of thought. He’d worked for Farouche only about a year, and some of those scars were obviously older than that. Yet I didn’t think Paul was much more than twenty, which meant he’d likely been a teenager when it happened. Why the hell would anyone beat the everloving dogsnot out of a kid this mild and gentle?

“Who did this to you, Paul?” I asked quietly.

His hand trembled as he touched the scar on his cheekbone. “M-my dad,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry.” I let out a sigh. “It’s even worse when it’s someone you trust, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Oh god, yes, so much worse!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I never thought anyone else could understand. It’s the worst.” Breath shuddered out of him. “It hurt.”

I knew he didn’t mean the physical pain. My throat tightened without warning in a weird mix of grief and anger. I opened the first aid kit, busied myself with getting supplies out while I regained my composure. “I was betrayed by my lover,” I said when I could control my voice again. “He made love to me, then strung me up and did all that shit to me.” I began to clean the wound with betadine wipes. “It’s the shattering of trust that hurts the most,” I continued. “You trust this person. They’re supposed to be the one protecting you, helping you, and instead they fuck you up.” I found gauze in the first aid kit and carefully taped it over the wound. “And it’s like something’s broken, and you think you’ll never be able to trust or love again.” But I did, I thought fiercely. I did trust, and I did love again. Fuck you, Rhyzkahl.

“Yeah.” His voice broke a bit, and he paused to clear his throat. “I’ve got Bryce. And I know that’s screwy because . . . because I was a prisoner and he was my guard.” He sighed. “But I’ve got Bryce.”

“I have Mzatal,” I said. “And it’s not screwy. I get it. Bryce really cares about you.” I knew damn well he didn’t take that bullet for Paul simply because it was his job. I closed the first aid kit and handed Paul the clean t-shirt.

He pulled it on then looked down at the pale form of Thatcher on the bed. “He does.” A smile touched his mouth. “He does really care. It’s like having the best big brother ever sometimes.” He took a deep breath, shifted his attention back to me and abruptly changed the subject. “Mzatal. From another world. Wow.” A weak chuckle slipped out. “Sorry, still trying to get a handle on it. I mean, he used magic—”

“Arcane,” I put in, then shrugged. “Doesn’t sound quite as weird then.”

Paul managed a crooked smile. “Right. Arcane. He used it to heal Bryce and,” he paled, gulped, “kill that other guy. Oh my god. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

“He’s got some mojo when he’s worked up,” I said with a nod.

“Mojo,” he echoed. “That’s putting it mildly, to say the least. I mean, I felt it before, big time, when he was doing his thing to Bryce,” he continued, growing more animated, “but when he stood up, whoa!”

“It’s definitely palpable,” I agreed, hiding a smile at the awe in Paul’s expression.

“What was the deal?” he asked. “Who were those guys? He killed one, just like that. Blam!”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. I wonder if Mzatal knows he has a fanboy now? “They work for the lords who did this to me,” I said, sobering a bit as I tapped my chest, indicating the scars. “Those lords want this world, and they don’t intend to be nice about it.”

His eyes widened. “Want this world?” He took a few seconds to process that. “This is big stuff,” he stated, as if the fact that another world existed was old news now.

“It sure is,” I said, doing my best to keep a serious expression. If not for Mzatal’s assessment and assurance that Paul wasn’t a threat to us, I might have worried that Paul’s ingenuous nature was simply part of an act to gain my trust. But I trusted Mzatal, and I knew he’d pick up anything suspicious the instant it cropped up.

“My torture wasn’t simply for torture’s sake,” I told him. “It was part of a ritual meant to make me a thrall, a powerful tool for them to construct a permanent arcane gate between their world and ours, and more.”

“And you really want me and Bryce to go to the other world?” he asked, an eager edge in his voice now.

I managed to give him an appropriately serious nod. “It would only be for a day or two,” I said, “but I truly believe it would be for the best.”

“It would be,” he agreed, then grimaced. “Big Mack will look for us. He’ll find out we were brought here.”

“You’re pretty valuable to your boss,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be hunting for you.”

His brow creased. “How do you know that? I mean, that I’m valuable.”

I lowered myself to sit on the ottoman. “Because your boss went to the trouble of kidnapping you.”

He hunched in on himself. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

I eyed him, remembering what Mzatal had said about residuals of the influence and compulsion from Farouche. “You’re still afraid of him.”

“It’s better now,” he said slowly. “Way better since Lord Mzatal did . . . whatever he did.” He looked down at his hands, clenched and unclenched them as if making sure they worked. “Mr. Farouche never hurt me or anything. He made sure I had all the medical care and surgeries the doctors recommended. Gave me everything I needed. Hell, just about anything I wanted, too. He’s just . . . ” Paul shivered and rubbed his arms, then sighed. “Yeah. He still scares me.”

“I think Lord Mzatal can help you more with that,” I said, then stood. “I’m going to scrounge up some food. You sit tight here, and I’ll bring something in for you.”

He gave me a wavering smile. “Thanks, Kara, for everything.”

I returned the smile. “Sure thing, Paul.” I left the room and headed to the kitchen.

And hopefully you’ll be able to repay the favor by using your valuable computer skills to help us find Idris.