Fury of the Demon

Chapter 43

I woke on the sofa in my living room beneath a faded quilt. Sunlight beamed through a window, throwing a pattern of squares onto the rug. Not squares, I thought. No right angles. I struggled for a few seconds to come up with the right word. Quadrilaterals. Yeah, that was it. Still had my third grade math skills. That was cool.

Someone stepped in the quadrilaterals, turned and stepped through them again. I lifted my focus a few feet. Bryce, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, stark worry twisting his features. Bryce. He’d called to me, shouted my name.

Kara.

I sucked in a gasp and jerked upright as memory crashed over me. Both hands flew to my chest, clawed at a blade that wasn’t there.

Bryce whirled to face me. “Kara?”

My pulse thundered as I fumbled at my chest. “Bryce?” I croaked. “I—” Pulse. Heart beating. I stilled my shaking hands and pressed them hard over my sternum. Felt the reassuring thud beneath it.

A shift of movement near the door pulled my attention. Eilahn, eyes on me and a smile whispering across her face as she sat with one knee up and the other leg tucked beneath her. Bryce crouched before me and took hold of my shoulders, his features battered by uncertainty and fatigue as he searched my face. “Kara?” he asked. Asked. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure who I was.

But I knew exactly who I was, and that knowledge steadied with each beat of my heart. “Yeah, I’m Kara,” I said, rewarded by relief that shone in his eyes. “I’m Kara,” I repeated, and would have said it a third time except something sharp jabbed at the palm of my left hand, distracting me.

I pulled my hands from my chest to see what poked me, went cold and still at the sight of the twisted gold and silver prongs that thrust up from the empty setting of my ring like imploring hands. Sick grief wound through me. She had destroyed the stone. The cracked and perfect stone of the ring Mzatal had given me.

Bryce released my shoulders, let out a low sigh. “He put it back on your finger,” he said in a low voice and touched a finger gently to the prongs. “After he brought you back, that is.” A whisper of pain and horror threaded through the words, and I looked up sharply. Shadows huddled beneath bloodshot eyes, and stubble marked an uneven path along his jawline.

“You look like hell,” I blurted.

He let out a wheezing laugh. “You’re one to fucking talk!”

I struggled to laugh along with him, but it was a pitiful effort. Bryce sensed it and let his own die away, then shifted from the crouch to sit on the coffee table before me.

“He told me he had to . . . summon her, summon Rowan in order to get her out of you.” Bryce shook his head. “I’m not explaining it very well. Sorry. I was kind of yelling at him a lot and probably missed some of what he said.”

“It’s all right,” I murmured, then took a deeper breath. “I’m me again, and the virus is gone.” Of that I was certain. Szerain knew the rakkuhr with terrifying intimacy, knew Vsuhl’s hunger, and had used one nightmare to defeat another.

And I didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

“What happened after he,” I gestured vaguely at my sternum, “did that?” I had on a t-shirt, I suddenly realized. And running shorts. Eilahn’s work, no doubt. I gave her a nod of gratitude, for far more than the clothing. She inclined her head in response, relief stark on her features. She’d had no way to divine Szerain’s true intent and, like Bryce, had surely thought the worst.

Bryce’s mouth twisted into a smile. “You mean after you joined the ‘Devastating Chest Wound’ club?” He thumped his own chest in mock-solidarity, and this time my laugh was more genuine. “Jesus, Kara,” he breathed. “When he stabbed you and twisted the blade, I thought that was it.” Remembered shock and horror flickered over his face. “But then the knife vanished. He dropped to his knees beside you and slapped his hand over the wound, started working the healing.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think he was sure he’d be able to save you. He was sweating it, hard.”

I touched my chest again. “Yeah,” I said, voice quavering only a little. “I doubt that kind of damage to the heart by an essence blade is a walk in the park to fix.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Well, I don’t ever want to do that again.”

“I’m with you there,” I said fervently. “I am one hundred percent cool with never getting stabbed in the chest again.”

“So.” Bryce cleared his throat. “Agent Kristoff is a demonic lord. Did not see that coming.”

I smiled weakly. “Surprise?”

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

My fingers moved over my sternum, and I felt the sigil scar beneath the shirt, a gap in its lines where Vsuhl had cut and Szerain had healed. And Szerain had done something to the twelfth sigil, changed it. But to what?

“So, uh, where’s Ryan?” And wasn’t that ever a loaded question, I realized after I asked it. My last memory of him was as a completely unsubmerged Szerain in full possession of his essence blade. I had no idea what sort of state he’d be in now.

“I don’t know,” Bryce said with a slow shake of his head. “He left this morning and said he’d be back tonight.”

“Did he look like . . . Ryan when he left?” I asked somewhat hesitantly. I had a sudden image of an unsubmerged, Vsuhl-wielding Szerain out in the world. I couldn’t help but worry about, well, consequences.

“Yeah, he did,” Bryce said to my relief. “While you were busy getting pesky holes in your chest, Sonny left about a billion messages on my phone telling me Zack wanted to talk to Ryan—I mean, Szerain.” He grimaced. “Szerain went down to the basement to return Zack’s call, and when he came back up a little after sunrise he was all Ryan. Looks, mannerisms, everything.”

Zack had sensed it all—the blade, Szerain unsubmerging. That must have freaked him out pretty hard. But how did Szerain get to be Ryan again? As far as I knew, the act of submersion—including making him look like Ryan—was inflicted on him by another. Had Zack recovered enough to blip over and do it? I found that improbable; he’d been a total mess when I left him. Could he have done it over the phone somehow?

Or did another enforcer come to take Zack’s place? My mouth went dry at the thought. I doubted any other would show Szerain the mercies that had kept him sane for all these years.

I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Anything to eat around here?”

“There should be leftovers,” he said. “Plus sandwich stuff. Hang tight, and I’ll check.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.

Not so easy to hang tight with a bladder about to burst. I made my way to the bathroom, did my business, then flopped back on the sofa and promptly fell asleep again.

I woke to find a ham and cheese sandwich with chips on the coffee table, and Bryce dozing in the comfy chair with his head cocked to the side in a way that would likely leave him with an aching neck. A half-eaten sandwich rested forgotten on his thigh. I got up, gingerly retrieved his sandwich and returned it to a plate on the side table, adjusted his head to a more comfortable position then grabbed my food and headed for the kitchen.

I ate slowly, savoring the sandwich, the feel of my kitchen, the scent of gardenias from the bush outside the window. But mostly I took the time to appreciate being me. Who I was had nothing to do with being a cop or a summoner or with who my friends were. It was far more intrinsic than any set of externals.

Tunjen and a handful of grapes finished off the meal. I felt good, definitely better than I had since Rhyzkahl hit me with the rakkuhr virus. The ache to share with Mzatal threatened to take over, and I pushed it down, sealed it away. No point in going there.

It worked. A bit.

After I tucked my plate into the dishwasher, I realized I had no idea what to do next. There were plenty of things that needed to be dealt with, but nothing immediate and in my face.

Get clean, I decided. When in doubt, shower.

Once in the bathroom, I stripped, gazed at my reflection in the mirror. A patch of smooth skin between the ribs to the left of my sternum marked the place where Vsuhl had pierced. Technically, it wasn’t a scar at all, but rather a lack of one within the other scars. Yet it felt like one as it marred the lines of Mzatal’s sigil, left a gap in the flowing curves of his signature mark. I touched the spot, reflexively reached for him. I sensed him, even though he was in the demon realm, but what would have been a faint, tingling hum before was now rigid, cold silence. Why, Mzatal? It shouldn’t end like this. Not without a word.

With a shuddering breath, I pushed away thoughts of what I couldn’t change right now, ran my hands over the other scars. Still the same.

Except for one.

I turned slowly away from the mirror, looked back over my shoulder at the reflection of the twelfth sigil, the one Szerain had altered. Then stared. I’d felt four cuts, nothing more, but he hadn’t simply added to the existing scar. He’d changed it completely. How was that possible? The angular rigidity of the original had been replaced by artistic curves and flourishes that spoke of delicate strength. But even that wasn’t enough for my World of Weirdness. It wasn’t even a scar anymore. It was more like an arcane tattoo—beautiful, captivating, and glowing sapphire in othersight.

I twisted while I looked over my shoulder in the mirror and reached awkwardly for the altered scar—or whatever it was now. Smooth skin, a nearly imperceptible tingle. It didn’t feel wrong, arcanely or otherwise. But still—

“Eilahn!” In a heartbeat she came through the door. “What did Szerain do?” I asked her, my voice shaking in a blend of anger tinged with fear. “Did he fucking mark me?”

She laid her hand on the sigil. “I would not be here in peace had the kiraknikahl placed his mark upon you.”

No, she wouldn’t. I allowed myself a bit of relief. “What then? Why is it a live sigil rather than a scar?” But the answer hit me before she could respond. “Because Szerain completed the process,” I breathed. “If Rhyzkahl had finished his torture ritual, all of the sigils would be like this, and I would be the Rowan bitch with arcanely glowing body art.”

“You are correct. And Szerain saved you with this,” she said, lightly patting the sigil. “I do not know its full purpose, but without it, Kara Gillian would be no more.”

And with that cheerful thought, she left me to my shower.

Half an hour later I was clean, Bryce was snoring in the chair, and I was still at loose ends. Fine then. When clean and in doubt, surf the Internet.

I spent about an hour checking news sites and watching reports online, then shut the computer down and returned to the kitchen.

Bryce shuffled in from the living room as I pondered the menu for the Kara’s Kafe dinner special of the day. I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Dude, you look worse than you did before you napped,” I noted helpfully. “You should go crash for real.”

“Yeah. I will in a bit,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I need a shower and some food first.”

“You’ve been through a lot of shit,” I said. “Always feels good to wash it off. And I speak from vast experience.” I gave him a smile. “I’ll get the food part handled. Go shower.”

The dryer buzzed in the laundry room, and I headed that way. Mundane tasks. Dishes. Dinner. Laundry. Boring and comfortable. I knew the normalcy of it was an illusion, but I intended to cling to it while I could.

I dumped the dryer contents into a basket, hefted it, and returned to the kitchen. I could fold while I figured out what to cook. Yet when I returned I saw Bryce staring out the window, still unshowered, and with a troubled expression on his face.

A glance out the window showed nothing but my backyard in the late evening light. I plunked the basket onto the table. “Bryce? You okay?”

He turned, leaned back against the counter. “Did you see what they’re saying on the news about the plantation incident?” he asked. “Or rather, what they’re not saying.”

I nodded. “The official line is that it was a big fire with several suspected dead, and that a body resembling James Macklin Farouche was found at the scene although ID has not yet been confirmed.” I pulled out a towel and started folding. “Investigations are already ramping up, but I doubt you’ll be seeing any stories on the ten o’clock news about a wizard calling lightning, especially since the eyewitnesses have so many conflicting stories.” I shrugged. “People always find a way to explain weird shit and make it something rational. And with everything from ‘alien invasion’ to ‘secret government experiment conspiracies’ popping up on the Internet, anyone who tells the truth about what happened will be labeled a nutjob and dismissed.”

He gave a slow nod of agreement. “Makes sense.” He picked up a shirt, flipped it right-side out then folded it in a crisp series of moves. “I saw Lon Harris get electrocuted when a power line fell at the compound,” he said as he set the folded shirt down and picked up another. “He’s the one who tortured and killed Dickey, the security guard who shot me at the warehouse.”

“Remind me to send flowers to his funeral,” I said, sticking to the towels since Bryce’s folding skills were vastly superior to mine. “Dead ones.”

“Jerry made it out though,” Bryce continued, muscle twitching in his jaw. “I caught him on some news footage coming out of the hospital with his arm in a sling.” He snapped a shirt out with a sharp crack. “Too bad he didn’t go down.”

“With the investigations in full swing, he will, one way or another,” I reassured him.

Bryce gave me a predatory smile. “Yeah, he will,” he said, and I knew he’d make sure of it if the official channels failed.

I started on the dishtowels. “There’s more bothering you,” I said. “Spill.”

He exhaled. “Paul wiped all digital evidence that he, Sonny, and I had ever been involved with Farouche.” He stacked the folded shirt with the others, grimaced and looked up at me.

“But you’re still worried,” I finished for him. “Paper and off-line records are still out there, and will lead investigators right to you.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

I met his eyes. “What if there was a way for you to have a clean slate?”

He began to pair socks, adroitly avoiding several pairs of undies. “I’ve done some really bad shit, killed a lot of people in cold blood. But I’m not that man anymore. Could I still kill? Would I still kill? Yeah.” Sadness whispered through his voice. “But not like that. Never again. I won’t do someone else’s dirty work.” He neatly tucked two socks together in a ball. “That said, I don’t want to rot in prison. I don’t want to stop doing what I can against the Mraztur. I don’t want to leave Paul or Sonny. They’re my family. If I can get a clean slate, I’ll take it.”

“I’ve already been thinking about it,” I told him, “and I have some ideas on how to pull it off. Once Zack is back in the swing of things, he can help get new identities for you three.” If Zack is ever back in the swing of things.

Bryce dropped the socks to the table. “That’s . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head. “‘Thanks’ doesn’t cut it.”

I handed him the stack of dishtowels to put in the drawer. “If it wasn’t for you and Sonny and Paul, we wouldn’t have Idris back, and the Mraztur would be full steam ahead with their dangerous node-gate bullshit.”

He tucked the towels away. “I sure as hell want to do more. I’m in the game.”

“Good, then we’re stuck with you,” I said and thrust a bath towel at him. “And there’s a no-stench rule for my posse. Go. Shower.”

He smiled, took the towel, and turned toward the bathroom. “Kara’s Kavalry?”

“No!” I shouted at his back. “Posse.”

Still smiling, I put the rest of the laundry away. I was putting the empty basket in the laundry room when I heard the front door open. Ryan.

My heart pounded. It was only Ryan. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself. I returned to the kitchen and peered down the hall, wanting to see and feel for myself who he was before he reached me. I didn’t want to misstep and say something I shouldn’t.

He approached with a smile, completely Ryan-like in looks and manner and walk. “You look better than you did when I left,” he said.

Well, shit. That didn’t give me a clue. “Um, how did I look?”

“Laid out on the sofa. Wasted after the ordeal.” He took off his suit jacket and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Uh huh,” I said, watching his every move. “The, um, ordeal of the stuff at the plantation?”

“That and what happened out there last night.” He nodded toward the backyard. “It’s okay. You can talk about it.”

My stomach did weird flip flops as I tried to shove the ragged clues into something that made sense. “How is it okay . . . Ryan?”

He still smiled, but a touch of sadness colored it now. “Because I know,” he said quietly. “I know what I am, and I know that I stabbed you last night and healed you. I don’t know all the whys of it here on the surface,” he tapped his temple with a finger, “because I’m taking it one step at a time. This is pretty stressful.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “So you’re . . .” I nodded and struggled to smile. Was Ryan—my Ryan—gone?

“Szerain?” he finished for me. His brow furrowed. “I guess. It’s a little confusing for me. Shit, a lot confusing. I’m sorry. I don’t want to freak you out.”

I moved hesitantly to him, took his hand and peered into his face. It was Ryan’s yet more than Ryan’s, though I knew I’d never be able to explain it. My head told me it was time to grieve, told me this wasn’t Ryan anymore, but how could I grieve when he was still here?

“It’s really weird that you know about Szerain,” I said tentatively.

“You ought to try it from in here,” he said with what seemed a genuine Ryan smile. “You’re one tough chick, you know that?”

I let out a weak laugh. “Stubborn Bitch. Sheesh. Get the term right.”

“Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting.” He squeezed my hand, then blew out a breath. “So, what’s next?”

I had a feeling he meant in the grand scheme of conflict and crisis, but I didn’t have it in me to go there right now. Instead, I shrugged. “Dinner?”

He regarded me for a moment, relief in those green-gold eyes that reflected both Ryan and Szerain. “Yeah. That’s nice and normal. Let’s fix dinner.”

“Normal. Me cooking. Right,” I said, laughing a little. He craved the illusion of a normal life right now as much as I did.

“More me cooking and you,” he paused, “assisting,” he suggested. “I think that’s a better plan.”

“Safer for everyone.”

“Safety first.” He turned and opened the fridge, scanned the contents. “How about BLTs and french fries?”

“With double bacon, I’m in.”

Bryce and Jill joined us about halfway through the prep, and soon the kitchen echoed with jokes and banter and laughter. Each of us and all of us faced challenges and bore burdens unimaginable to ninety-nine point nine percent of the population, but for this evening we ruthlessly pushed them aside and gorged on food and friendship.