Fury of the Demon

Chapter 33

I went in search of Mzatal and found him in the room at the end of the hall—Rasha’s summoning chamber. A permanent base diagram had been beautifully etched in the clay tile of the floor, and Mzatal stood atop it now, head lowered, hands in fists at his sides, and black fury roiling through his aura.

“Did he see it?” I asked, had to ask, though my voice quavered. “Did Idris have to watch his sister’s rape and murder?”

Teeth clenched, Mzatal lifted his head. His eyes met mine, and within the rage and pain and guilt that burned in them lay my answer.

“Show me,” I whispered hoarsely. He looked away, and I moved to him, seized his hand. “Boss, show me. I need to know what you read from her.”

He didn’t move for another several heartbeats, then finally laid his fingers against my temple.

Images and impressions from Rasha’s memories tumbled through my mind, and I fought the urge to pull back from the disorienting wave. A heartbeat later I felt him focus, and the influx eased and resolved.

My hand remained clenched on his as I processed the flood of visions and sounds and emotions, slipped into the flow of the woman’s memories.

Idris leads us in the summoning ritual. Tsuneo and Aaron assist while I anchor. It is kind of the boy to leave that aspect to me. So very difficult to work the potency strands with hands stiff with pain. Talented and adept as well as kind. The summoning is smooth and perfect . . .

Isumo arrives, his face contorted in agony. He carries a sigil like nothing I’ve ever seen. Red and chaotic and twisted. It feels wrong, but my questions and protests are ignored. Isumo calls for “the girl,” and my confusion rises as two men enter with a bound and gagged young woman . . .

Idris is horrified. Amber, he shouts, and while Isumo and Aaron place the girl within the diagram, Idris struggles wildly against the men who brought her. Now I learn it is a death ritual, to be used to entrap one called Kara Gillian. I protest and refuse to assist, beg Isumo to reconsider. I do not understand why he would follow such a terrible path, yet he orders me removed from the chamber—my chamber. Tsuneo and Aaron take me out, and I see one of the other men look toward the girl with an ugly smile. He straightens and unfastens his belt . . .

I sit in the living room. Isumo calls for the sigil to be placed in her. Rakkuhr,he calls it, and even the word feels unclean. I hear her weep and Idris beg mercy for her. Then cries and screams punctuated by sadistic grunts of pleasure. Then there are only screams and whimpers. For hours I listen and despise myself for not interfering, for doing nothing while they abuse her . . .

Finally, silence, save for a low murmur of voices. After a few minutes the door to my chamber opens, and Tsuneo and the one with the ugly smile come out carrying a black body bag . . .

What can I do? Terror fills me at the mere thought of calling the police. I am a foolish and useless old woman, and the girl’s blood lies on my hands as heavily as any of them. The men leave through the garage with the body bag and do not return . . .

Idris is led out, shoved forward to sit on the couch. He does so, numbly, as if he has no fight left. “We were following node emissions,” he murmurs, stricken. “I was cooperating. They didn’t have to do that.” His voice is so hollow and lost, yet I think perhaps he has much fight yet within him, more than they can imagine. Isumo and Aaron finish in my summoning chamber, and then they all leave . . .

The wave of memories receded, and I found myself with my forehead resting on Mzatal’s chest and his arms around me. Rasha didn’t have a name for the man with the ugly smile, the one who’d raped Amber, but I did: Jerry Steiner. He’d taken her from the plantation, brought her here, and helped ensure her end was not an easy one. Shuddering, I held Mzatal close as we shared the pain and found balance within each other.

“They don’t know him,” I murmured and lifted my head to look into Mzatal’s face. “They don’t know Idris, and they made a huge mistake.” The Mraztur and their Earth accomplices could have ensured themselves a long-term and highly useful tool, simply with a touch of Farouche’s disturbing fear-influence and members of Idris’s family held as hostages. But instead they chose to defile and murder his sister before his eyes, when an unrelated person would have served as well for their gruesome death ritual. And certainly no need for Idris to witness it. I’d seen Idris’s face through Rasha’s eyes. They’d destroyed their tool along with his innocence and forged a true enemy.

“They have indeed erred, to our advantage,” Mzatal said, though his voice still held a growl.

“Idris told Rasha they were following node emissions. Like the geyser effect at the warehouse? Why?”

“There is potency to be harnessed through the emissions, as Tracy Gordon attempted with the gate at the warehouse node.” He shook his head. “Though I do not know the Mraztur’s plan, that it involves the nodes is both enlightening and disturbing. It is unwise to tamper with such, and it disturbs me that Idris is involved.”

“We’re going to bring him home.”

“Soon,” he replied with utter conviction, and in the ancient depths of his eyes lay grim resolve and the promise of vengeance.

“Then let’s get started,” I said. “Rasha is under Farouche’s influence. Probably best to take care of that first.” The teakettle began a plaintive wail from the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea for her. She could probably use it.”

Mzatal gave a slight nod, then exited the chamber to tend to Rasha while I returned to the kitchen. Paul was there, in the process of removing the kettle from the heat. A broom leaned against the counter, and I saw the shards of china in a neat pile.

He gave me a tentative smile. “I figured I’d make myself useful.”

“Like that’s ever a problem with you,” I said. “How’s Rasha?”

“Freaked out.” He plucked a cup from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag into it. “Bryce is doing pretty good keeping her calm though.”

“She has the Farouche juju on her,” I told him. “Mzatal’s clearing that right now.”

He poured the hot water into the cup, then retreated to his laptop on the table. “You’ll want to see this,” he said as he typed. “Check this out.” He turned the screen toward me to reveal a photo of a lovely dark-haired woman in an evening dress, in her fifties or so and with a Middle Eastern look about her, posing with the governor of Louisiana. “I recognized her from photos in the living room and pulled this up for you. It’s Big Mack’s first wife,” he told me. “Rasha’s daughter, Aria Farouche.”

“Fucking shit,” I breathed. “This is one hell of a tangled mess.” Farouche had divorced this woman seventeen years ago, a couple of years after their five year old daughter—who I now knew to be Rasha’s granddaughter—had been abducted. “Where is she now?”

“Living happily in New Orleans with plenty of cash from B.M.,” he said. “They apparently still get along pretty well. She came to the plantation several times last year for holidays and stuff.”

“How cozy,” I said. “Is she Jade’s mother?”

He shook his head. “Her aunt. Jade’s parents died in a house fire when she was eight. Jade survived but had some bad burns on her legs.”

I let all that sink in as I took the teabag from the cup and set it aside. “Anything else?”

“Not yet. That’s all I had time for.”

“You rock,” I stated. “Let’s go see what other surprises she has for us.” I picked up the cup of tea and turned toward the living room then stopped and stared at the notepad beside the phone on the kitchen counter. My name and number were written on it in awkward, shaky writing. She’d wanted to call me, to warn me, but hadn’t. Or couldn’t because of Farouche’s influence. Poor woman.

As I moved down the two steps into the sunken living room, I quickly took in the surroundings. A worn sofa, chaise lounge, and two wingback chairs. A fireplace, coffee table, and various shelves holding a host of framed photos. Everything neat and clean, with only a modicum of dust.

Face dreamy, Rasha sat in one of the chairs with Mzatal behind her, his hands on her head. It was clearly her usual spot to judge by the tissues, eyeglasses case, and books on the table beside it. Two framed photos rested by the books: one of teenaged Jade dressed in a blue and white cheerleading outfit, and one of a laughing girl about five.

I placed the cup on her table, then settled on the chaise lounge and waited for Mzatal to finish his work. Bryce maintained a watchful position by the arch that led to the entryway, and Paul settled onto the step beside him.

After a few minutes Mzatal lifted his hands from her head and moved to a position beside me, expression as unreadable as ever, though now he merely loomed instead of LOOMED.

Rasha’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from Mzatal to me. “Macklin was behind this? He came for a visit before. He seemed so concerned about me. So normal.”

Mzatal had apparently given her some basic halo-tarnishing information on James Macklin Farouche once he’d cleared the bastard’s influence.

“Yes, he was,” I said, not surprised by the visit. To lay the fear, no doubt. “At least for some of what’s occurred on Earth. I’m sorry.”

Grief deepened the lines in her face. “He changed after Madeleine was abducted. My beautiful granddaughter.” Her hand trembled as she touched the picture of the little girl on the side table. “But I never imagined he would go this far. I never saw that in him.”

“He’s hurt a lot of people,” I told her. “It has to stop.”

She drew a shaky breath. “I am deeply sorry for my part in this.”

“Rasha, we know you didn’t condone what happened.” I kept my voice gentle. She was like one of her china teacups—elegant and beautiful, aged and fragile. “I saw my number by your phone,” I continued. “I know you would have warned me if at all possible.” I pulled the sketch of the ring out of my bag. Though I suspected I knew whose hand I’d seen wearing it, we needed to be absolutely certain. “We’re still looking for Idris, and you might be able to help.” I showed her the drawing. “Where is this ring now?”

Rasha’s mouth thinned, and her eyes hardened. “Aaron has it,” she said, vehemence thick and sharp in her voice. “I saw it on his hand when he was here. I gave it to Jade on her sixteenth birthday. He says she gave it to him last year.”

“What did he do to her?” I asked as I tucked the sketch away again.

“When she was nearly seventeen, he came here to train her and also to learn what I had to offer.” She leaned forward, mouth twisting into a sneer. “He thought he knew so much. I had been summoning for more than thirty years when he was still a babe at his mother’s tit. Thirty years, back when it was dangerous and the flows more capricious.” She sat back, shook her head. “When Jade was barely eighteen, she and Aaron announced that they were together and assumed I would simply accept it.”

Great. The young, nubile Jade was a summoner too, and her boyfriend, who grandma didn’t approve of, was also a summoner except he was sort of evil. I’d seen soap operas with less drama. As the Portal Turns?

“But you didn’t accept it,” I said.

“How could I and still have a conscience?” She drew herself up proudly. “He was and is an insufferable ass who lacked respect and restraint.”

I wasn’t about to argue that point. “She didn’t come with Asher last Monday?”

Sorrow clouded her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. “Five years ago I tried to talk sense into her, told her Aaron was no good, and I wouldn’t tolerate him in my house for training or otherwise.” She looked away. “She walked out with him and never returned,” she said, voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.” It was a story as old as time, and Rasha had played the role of disapproving elder with fervor. And even though her intent had been noble—to protect her lovely granddaughter from an untrustworthy man—she paid the price with crushing loneliness so deep she’d risked injury or death to summon Faruk, simply to play chess with her last . . . Christmas. My chest squeezed tight. She’d been completely alone for Christmas.

And how many Christmases have I spent with only my aunt? I pushed the unpleasant question away. I didn’t want to think about that right now.

Mzatal abruptly stepped forward. “Rasha Hassan Jalal al-Khouri.”

Rasha looked up at him, eyes wide, but with caution now instead of fear. “Lord Mzatal.”

He dropped into a crouch before her. “You carry heavy burdens, old and new,” he said, voice rich. “Aaron Asher has committed a great offense against me, and he has used you. I will find him, and I will extinguish him.”

Her mouth curved into a fierce smile. “I am in your debt, my lord.”

Mzatal gently took her gnarled hands in his, lifted them to touch his forehead before returning them to her lap. “No, honored summoner. You have served well for more than half a century. It is a gift.” He folded her hands between his. “As is this.” He glanced to me. “Beloved, will you assist me?”

I smiled, deeply pleased as I felt his intent. “You got it, Boss.” The rhythm of the healing patterns felt familiar now after working with him on Bryce, and I slipped into our connection effortlessly.

Mzatal shifted his hold and worked the stiffness in her joints. “You will soon find it easier to summon again.”

Rasha inhaled sharply as healing warmth suffused her hands, and understanding dawned in her eyes an instant later. “Oh my,” she murmured, then closed her eyes and sat quiet and still while we worked.

A few minutes later she opened them again, brow puckered. Mzatal’s lips twitched in a smile as we continued to work the healing. “Speak, Rasha.”

A whisper of fear crossed her face as she realized he could read her thoughts. “My lord, I meant no offense.”

“Speak,” he repeated.

She took a careful breath. “You call her beloved,” she said quietly, no doubt embarrassed I could hear, but unwilling to defy the lord’s command.

He moved his hands to her wrists, and his smile grew fond. “Yes. I only speak the truth.”

“Yet she calls you Boss, my lord?” she asked, clearly perplexed and probably wondering why he tolerated such disrespect. I studiously kept my eyes slightly unfocused as if I wasn’t paying any attention and carefully suppressed a smile.

“She does indeed name me such,” he agreed. “Frequently.” Mzatal’s smile kicked up another degree. “It is the energy behind the word, not the word itself,” he explained. “Have you not heard a human speak a term of endearment, yet put such harsh intent behind it that it could as easily have been a knife to the essence?”

The old summoner let out a dry chuckle. “Ah, yes, of course.” Then she gave a wistful sigh. “My Sapar, he would call me his third doughnut. Odd, to be sure, but he meant it sweetly. I miss him still.” Her forehead creased, as if struggling to recall those days with her long dead husband.

“You have lived long alone,” he murmured.

She looked into the distance, smile trembling. “I had my granddaughter Jade for many years after my son and his wife died,” she said, then sighed. “Such a joy she was, despite all she’d endured. So beautiful.”

Mzatal gently released her hands, then brushed his fingers along her temple. Her expression cleared, and joy replaced the confusion as if Mzatal had dusted off those old memories.

“Oh . . . my lord.” She lifted her hands, opened and closed her fingers, eyes brimming with tears. “You have given me a great gift.”

“One richly deserved,” he replied.

“Rasha, you have my number by your phone,” I said. “Call me if anyone threatens or pressures you, and especially if anyone tries to hurt you.”

She nodded grateful assent.

“Now you must rest,” Mzatal said and sent her into sleep before she could either protest or thank him. With a tenderness that few, other than I, had ever witnessed, he lifted the aged summoner and settled her on the couch. His hand remained on her shoulder for several more heartbeats before he straightened and drew a light blanket over her.

“I have eased her memory of the ritual,” he told me quietly. “She is able to remember it, but only with focus and intent. It will no longer haunt her.”

“You’re such a softy,” I said with a low laugh, and planted a not-soft kiss on his mouth. He’d expended a good portion of his reserves with the healing, and I resolved to get him home to the mini-nexus as soon as possible.

Bryce and Paul and I finished cleaning up the kitchen and the broken porcelain, while Mzatal restored the wards in her house and beefed them up to demonic lord levels. At long last we departed, leaving Rasha sleeping peacefully on the sofa.

Eilahn emerged from a clump of brush on the other side of the street, smiled and readied the motorcycle. I kept my hand in Mzatal’s as we walked back to the SUV. “I’m proud of you.” I slid a glance his way.

He gave me a sidelong look in return. “My heaviness met your expectation?”

“Well, you did a fair bit of looming for the first part of the visit,” I pointed out.

His brows drew together. “I was simply heavy.” Before I could reply, he moved swiftly behind me, aura shifting to black menace as he pressed close against my back. I felt his breath on my neck as he spoke with dark and sinister horror. “This is looming.”

I sucked in a gasping breath and had to bite back a cry of terror. Ahead of me, Bryce staggered and clutched at the SUV, face paling. Clenching my teeth, I drove an elbow back into Mzatal’s gut.

He grunted at the blow, then let out an actual laugh, horrific aura dissipating to his normal “heavy” mojo in an instant. Bryce and Paul turned to stare at the lord, both apparently finding the laughter almost more disturbing then the menace.

I couldn’t help but laugh as well. It felt good. “Holy shit, she’d have keeled over dead if you’d done that to her.” Throwing my arms around his neck, I planted a kiss on him, and didn’t mind at all when he wrapped his arms around me and returned it with a fervor that was possibly illegal on the streets of Austin, Texas.

Reluctantly, and only because Bryce and Paul were doing their best to look anywhere but at us, I broke the kiss. “Let’s get back home,” I said. “And if we run into Asher or Jerry or Katashi or Farouche, you can loooooom all you want.”