Fury of the Demon

Chapter 19

Eventually the hurt, betrayal, and worry coalesced into a more comfortable and familiar anger and general upset. I sat up and scrubbed my hand over my face. Enough unproductive bawling. I needed to get my ass up and move, lose myself in sweat and exhaustion. A perfect time to try out the obstacle course.

The fed-boys had done a good job with it, I decided with grudging respect. Without removing any living trees, they’d managed to create a clever and circuitous route through the woods, and had installed a dozen obstacles in existing natural clearings along it—walls of various heights, rope climbs, low crawls, wobbly log bridges, and more—all challenging without being ridiculous.

Forty-five minutes later and two rounds through the course, I stood bent over at the waist, hands on my knees, sick from the heat. Once hadn’t been enough. Twice hadn’t quite done the trick either, but I knew a third time would likely kill me. Besides, there were other tried and true ways to deal with emotional upheaval.

Once I could walk again without puking, I headed into the house to down a big glass of water. After that—and as soon as I knew my stomach wouldn’t rebel—I grabbed a spoon and a gallon of chocolate fudge ice cream, then flopped, stinky and dirty, into a chair at the kitchen table. A shower could wait. I had more important things to do.

About four spoonfuls in, I heard the front door open. Shit, don’t let it be Zack, not yet, I thought, then released my breath, relieved, when Ryan came into the kitchen. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them to the table with a clatter. I glanced at him, defiantly ate another spoonful.

“Sweat, stench, and ice cream,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Your partner,” I said and barely remembered in time that I couldn’t tell him the whole story since Ryan didn’t know Zack was a demon. “He’s a jerk.”

He stiffened. “Surfer Boy Zack got you worked up enough to stink and shovel ice cream? That’s my job. What did he do?”

“It’s hard to explain. Anyway, I’d like to let it go now.”

Ryan got an odd look on his face, as though he was trying to work through a complex problem while on good drugs. He looked at me, but I wasn’t sure he saw me.

“Ryan? You okay?”

Without any indication he’d heard me, he stripped off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then headed for the back door.

Something with Szerain? With the faintest of pouts, I stood and shoved the ice cream back in the freezer. Can’t even have a decent pity party around here. I followed Ryan out and stopped on the porch, watching. He paced this way and that in the grass before settling cross-legged with his back to me. My skin prickled. That was the same place Mzatal had identified as a potency confluence, where he’d gone to recharge.

I slowly moved to sit facing him. Ryan stared down, his hands wound in the grass in clenched claws. I waited in tense silence, certain that Szerain sought to express, and I didn’t want to disturb the process. A quick mental pygah helped me shed the distraction of the issues with Zack, and I hoped would also help Szerain.

A beetle trundled between the clenched blades of grass. An ant crawled over one knuckle and then down to the dirt again.

“Kara.”

I watched in fascination as the ant found a seed and hoisted it. What a strong fellow it was!

“Kara.”

I heard Szerain speaking, voice strained. “Kara,” he repeated, as though testing his ability.

Speaking to me, I abruptly realized. I yanked my gaze up to him. “Here,” I said quickly. “I’m here, Szerain.”

A tremor started in his hands and quickly swept over the rest of his body. “As . . . am I.”

“How? How can you be surfaced without Zack releasing you?” Or Vsuhl drawing you out.

“Practice. Focus. Confluence. Grate looser.” He drew a deep shuddering breath and gave a moan that sounded like pleasure. I guess he’d learned not to take the simple things for granted. “What trouble with Zakaar?”

“I had a falling out with him. A humongous one.” I exhaled as the memory and emotions returned. “I found out that my aunt has been manipulated to not know anything about being in the demon realm. I asked him if it was Rhyzkahl, which, after a lot of prodding, he confirmed. Then I asked him where his loyalties lay.” I sighed. “I had to sweat and scarf down ice cream after that.”

“Did not like the answer.”

“No. No, I didn’t. Rhyzkahl inflicted heinous torment on me.” The sigils carved into my torso itched and tingled like thin lines of sunburn at the reminder. “I don’t understand how Zakaar can maintain any connection to him.”

“Ptarl,” Szerain said as though it explained everything.

“Yeah, he’s still that asshole’s ptarl. Why?” I asked. The anger and frustration flared again. “How can he be my friend?” My jaw tightened. “Never mind, he can’t be that. How can he be an ally and still be with Rhyzkahl?”

He lifted his head in a motion that took supreme effort judging by the increase in his tremors. He struggled to open his eyes. “Still ptarl. Always.” Finally his gaze met mine, and enveloped me in ancient depths. “The bond.” He paused, as though recovering from the ordeal of opening his eyes. “The bond is made.”

“Yes, fine, he has a bond,” I said, “but some things are deal breakers—or at least they should be.”

Szerain recoiled from the words as though I’d spoken blackest heresy, though for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why. His face contorted in a disturbing dance of pain and horror and fury, all overlaid with madness. His hands curled into fists, ripped up tufts of grass. “No! Cannot be. There cannot be deal breakers. Not with ptarl.”

I seized one of his hands. “Szerain, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, I’m pygahing. Feel it.” I emphasized the command in my tone, hoping to penetrate the grip of what had set him off. Deal breaking related to a ptarl.

Shit. I’d forgotten Szerain was one of two lords separated from their ptarl. Kadir’s simply didn’t associate with him, but Szerain’s ptarl was either in hiding or dead, though most thought it was the latter. From what I gathered now, separated didn’t mean the bond was broken. Did being away from his ptarl add another degree of misery to the already tormented Szerain? At any rate, it was clearly a sore point I needed to avoid with him in such an unstable state.

Szerain drew a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut, but to my relief some of the tension left his body. His face eased back to normal. I unwound his fingers from the grass and held his hand securely. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“You did not know.” He opened his eyes again, focused on mine as though drawing support from me. And maybe he was. Moment by moment his speech improved. “Zakaar. You doubt him.”

“I do,” I admitted. “The thing with Tessa is pretty big to hide from me. And he hesitated back at the warehouse when I needed him to bring Mzatal.” I scowled. “And shit, he didn’t point blank warn me about Rhyzkahl before I ended up with a torso full of body art. As long as he’s bound to Rhyzkahl, I don’t see how I can trust him.” I searched his face. “Am I being unreasonable?”

“Rhyzkahl’s ptarl. Reasonable doubt.”

A sliver of dismay went through me. I’d hoped for some brilliant rationalization of why it was okay to trust Zack despite all the shit. “That’s the conclusion I came to,” I said with a sigh. “I asked Ilana about him, and she said he opposed Rhyzkahl’s actions and chose to guard you. And I was actually cool with that until I found out he knew about Tessa’s manipulation.” I leaned closer, looking into eyes that were Ryan’s but not Ryan’s. “Szerain, do you trust him?”

His face tightened as though a wave of pain swept through him. “Zakaar. Yes. With my essence.”

I processed that. With his essence. Then again, Szerain didn’t have much choice in the matter. Zakaar controlled his existence—very literally held his essence. If he didn’t trust Zakaar, what did he have? I felt my mouth tighten as I mulled over the implications. So what if Zakaar rewarded him every once in a while by loosening the grate? It sure as hell didn’t make up for keeping him submerged in the first place.

Yet to Szerain, those times would be precious gifts, conditioning him to dependence and attachment. The torturer lets up on the pain a little, offers mercy and brief kindness, and becomes the hero. A technique as old as pain itself.

A shudder crawled over me. Rhyzkahl had used that method when he carved the sigils in my flesh, and if not for Mzatal’s intervention it would have worked. Throw in the fact that Szerain had been enduring this for years, and it was a full blown case of Stockholm syndrome.

Szerain’s fingers spasmed on mine before his grip firmed. “Kara. No,” he murmured, and I realized with a startled shock he’d read my thoughts. “So much more than that.”

His quiet voice held such intensity and presence that I went still, focused on him. “Okay. Tell me.”

“I am not insane.”

“No, you’re not,” I acknowledged as I tried to figure out where he was going with this. He wasn’t stable by any means, but he wasn’t nuts either. “And that’s pretty amazing. I wouldn’t have lasted a week.”

“Some times of madness. Despair. But I am still . . . here.” He lifted his free hand, rubbed the fingers together as though to reassure himself he really was. “Because of Zakaar. Only because of Zakaar.”

I considered that. “Because he occasionally eases the pressure?” I couldn’t fathom how that would be enough to counter the effects of the submersion, especially long term.

“No. Yes, though that is only a small part.” He trembled then extricated his hand from mine and placed both hands palm down on the ground. “Every night—every night for over fifteen years—he speaks to me while Ryan sleeps. For hours. Tells me stories. Reads to me. Keeps me focused. Passes glimmers of potency to me, palm to palm. Halts my certain descent into madness.”

I stared at him as I tried to assimilate this new information into my perspective. “That’s some pretty serious dedication.”

“He does not have to do this. It is his choice.” Another spasm of pain twisted his face. “He expends much potency in my care. He grows tired. He does not say it, but I know it is truth. This does not change what you experience with him, but it is unfair to include his treatment of me in your considerations unless it is weighted in his favor.”

“Point taken,” I said, subdued. I remained quiet for a moment as I rearranged my perception of Zakaar in my mind. “I heard this from Ilana,” I finally said, “but I’d like to hear it from you. It’ll help me—” I sought the right word to capture what I meant. “It’ll help me reconcile everything. Did he really oppose Rhyzkahl and distance himself because of it?”

“This is truth,” Szerain replied. “And distanced himself yet more by coming here with me since Helori was prepared to be my guardian.” He closed his eyes as though gathering the strength to speak again.

I willed calm and focus for both of us as I considered his words. I had no trouble seeing the demahnk Helori as a guardian. It was Helori who nurtured me in the days immediately following Rhyzkahl’s torture. Mzatal healed the physical damage, but without Helori’s firm, gentle presence and imperturbable patience, I never would have recovered from the mental and emotional trauma.

Szerain drew a labored breath, opened his eyes and continued. “Though Zakaar stood against Rhyzkahl’s actions on many levels, it was still a heavy blow to Rhyzkahl to lose contact with his . . .” Szerain’s face went ashen. “To lose a ptarl. To lose . . .” His gaze sharpened, fierce and predatory. “Kara. Call Vsuhl. I need my blade.” He reached, caught my wrist. “I cannot call it as I am. Diminished. Through you. Through you.”

I tensed in shock at the instantaneous shift in his manner, but then a snarl curled my lip. No way was I calling the essence blade for him. Not now. Hell, not ever. I’d worked my ass off for it and damned near destroyed the demon realm to get it. Then I felt it—an insidious drawing sensation as he used our contact to call to Vsuhl through me.

“No!” I shouted. I yanked my wrist from his weak grasp, scrabbled back and lurched to my feet. Breathing hard, I watched him warily. “You ever try shit like that again, and I’ll kick your motherfucking demonic ass.”

His hands went limp in the grass, and his eyes grew wild and unfocused. An instant later he jerked heavily, collapsed to the side and went into convulsions.

My anger evaporated in an instant. “Shit! Szerain!” I threw myself to my knees beside him, caught movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced that way. “Zack!” Relief flooded through me as he loped quickly toward us. Of course the guard and guardian wouldn’t be far away. “He tried to call Vsuhl.”

Zack gave a nod, crouched on the other side of Szerain. He spoke in demon as he laid his hand on Szerain’s forehead, and within seconds the convulsions stilled. “I will put Ryan into deep sleep and fog Szerain as much as I am able.”

“It came out of nowhere,” I told him, brow creased. “We were having a good conversation. Then he told me to call Vsuhl, and grabbed my wrist. When I broke away, he collapsed.”

Zack lifted his eyes to me. “The blades have a strong hold.”

“So I’ve noticed.” I scowled. “He’s obviously obsessed. When he tried to call the blade, it was like I suddenly didn’t know him. Before that, even though it was Szerain without Ryan, he was familiar.”

“You’ve held Vsuhl. You know a hint of its allure.” His gaze penetrated me. “Not a day goes by that you don’t think about the feel of it in your hand, even toy with the idea of calling it.”

I opened my mouth to deny such an absurd notion, then realized he was right. “Sure, but that’s no big deal,” I said, feeling an obscure need to defend myself.

“I’m simply asking you to consider that you held the blade twice. He held it for millennia.”

Feelings I couldn’t identify tumbled through me. “Whatever the deal is, I don’t want to go through that with him again,” I said with a shake of my head. “Maybe you can, um, get him to chill.” Chill? That was a pretty insensitive request, I realized with chagrin. Zack already worked his ass off to keep Szerain controlled and sane. “Crap. That was unfair of me. Forget I said that.” I shifted, grimaced. “Szerain told me what you’ve done for him. Do for him.” I gave him an apologetic wince. “I jumped your ass pretty hard earlier. You think we could call a truce?”

Relief I hadn’t expected shone in his eyes, and a faint smile touched his mouth. “I’d like that.”

“I can’t say it doesn’t still bug me—the whole Rhyzkahl’s ptarl thing, and you not spilling everything you know about Tessa,” I said, “but we all need to stick together right now. There’s too much at stake.”

“You’re right,” Zack replied. “This isn’t a time for division. I know you don’t fully trust me, and may never again.” He scooped Ryan into his arms and lifted him. “But I’m here,” he went on. “And I don’t intend to bring harm to you. My presence here is . . . complicated.”

I stood and nodded. “Okay. Fair enough for now. If I actually stop and think about it instead of flying off the handle, I can see the difference in actively helping Rhyzkahl and keeping your mouth shut about things you can’t—for whatever reason—share.”

Zack gave me a relieved smile, then headed toward the house with me. I opened the back door and held it for him to pass. “Szerain acted like this ptarl bond thing was forever and irrevocable. Is that true?”

“The qaztahl have no memory of a time without the bond,” he said as he passed through the kitchen, “and despite ptarl grievances, as with Rhyzkahl and Kadir, no bond has ever been broken.”

I followed him in. “So, hypothetically, a ptarl bond could be broken?”

Zack glanced at me as he made his way down the hall and toward the basement door. “Hypothetically, theoretically, yes. Practically, realistically, no.”

“Why?” I opened the basement door for him.

Zack stopped on the top of the stairs, turned to face me. “Unknown consequences. Disruption of the arcane flows. Potentially deadly effect on the qaztahl. Inconceivable loss. Ripples in all directions for many.”

But if no one had ever done it, how did he know for sure? It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. It was simply that it was so far away from anything I’d experienced, I had no reference. “If it was a little more practical and realistic,” I pressed, “would you break the bond?”

A wave of agonized distress passed over his features. “I don’t know.”

I accepted that as a victory over a flat out No. “Go take care of Ryan,” I said with a smile. “If you’re lucky, I might even start dinner.”

Zack let out a weak laugh. “I’m not sure I’d call that luck.”

“My cooking isn’t that bad.” My mouth twisted. “Or maybe it is. I’ll keep it simple.”

“I’ll be right back to supervise,” he replied with a hint of mock-panic in his voice. Or possibly real panic.

“Maybe you can pick up some culinary secrets,” I said sweetly, then closed the door behind them and headed for the kitchen to forage for something “simple.” In other words, Kara-proof.

Szerain and Zack had given me a lot to think about on top of the Idris issue, Farouche, and Tessa’s manipulation. Oh yeah, and let’s not forgot the evil demonic lords trying to take over the world. On top of all that, I needed to talk to Jill and see if I could convince her to move into what was rapidly becoming a compound. Kara’s Kompound. I muffled a laugh, then mulled over what I’d say to her while I tried to decide between frozen lasagna or waffles with bacon for dinner. Or bacon lasagna. Yum.

Zack returned with a stack of files and his laptop as I closed the oven door on the frozen lasagna. “I have Ryan sleeping. Szerain is in turmoil,” he said. “I’ll do some intense work with him tonight.” He set the laptop on the kitchen table and passed over a file folder. “I made copies of all the Symbol Man case file notes for you, as well as everything we have for Amber’s murder. Figured it couldn’t hurt for you to have it all.”

“You rock,” I said and took the folder. “I’m going to grab a shower while the lasagna cooks. Twice through the obstacle course. I think I stink a little.”

“More than a little. You’re ripe.”

“It’s much more gentlemanly to deny my stench.”

“Then you’d doubt it was me,” he said with a low laugh.

“You got that right.” The familiar banter was a relief and reminded me that, while the problems weren’t gone, they were manageable. “I’ll call Jill first and see if she wants to meet me tomorrow for a lovely early morning walk. Not only will it shock the hell out of her—me, exercise, morning—but I’ll have her as a captive audience to sell her on the benefits of her potential new temporary home.”

He grinned. “She won’t be able to resist it, not with your smooth sell.”

“Riiiiiight.” I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Seriously though, I’ll do my best. Too much shit going on right now to risk her.”

“Thanks,” he said fervently, and the worry and love for Jill in his eyes was another bit of reassurance for me. “I’ll get to work on the deeper mysteries of my open cases,” he said and headed for the living room.

I put the case files by the stack of Tracy Gordon journals, then made a quick call to Jill to invite her over for a persuasive sales pitch—disguised as a stroll around my property—for the next morning. I also gave her a summary of the harrowing roadblock incident with Farouche. I figured it couldn’t hurt to prime the danger pump.

No new crises emerged during my shower, to my relief and delight. The lasagna smelled great, and I had chocolate fudge ice cream to spare in the fridge. What the hell? A quiet night kicked back at home?

Don’t get cocky, I reminded myself. Best to take it minute by minute and not get my hopes up for the whole night.