Legacy of the Demon (14 page)

I tuned out the noise and commotion while I tried to sort through the entire turn of events. Kadir had compelled this teddy bear of a guy to confess to kidnapping and heinous child abuse. But
why
? Kadir seemed to delight in tormenting people. Was his purpose simply to break Frazier and make him suffer? Yet, his aura had gone to hell-frozen-over pissed when he confronted Frazier—as if it was the idea of the kid locked in the closet that affected the ice king. None of it fit my mental image of Kadir's style. Weird.

Once Pellini finished his calls, we returned to the Spires. The number of security personnel around it had tripled in the last two minutes, though the invisible barrier that kept people from getting close remained in full effect.

“We need to take the fight to them,” a young private announced as we drew near, face flushed with the excitement of the recent events. “Go through the gate with a few tons of C-4. That'll shake 'em up!”

I drew breath to rip him a new asshole, but Pellini beat me to it. “What a great idea! Except for the fact that you can't get near the gate, and even if you could, you'd end up in Lord Kadir's lap.” The soldier swallowed, wide-eyed, but Pellini was already wound up over the Frazier incident and on a roll. “But sure, maybe we could all go through the rifts instead. I'm assuming you somehow know where the rifts come out in the demon realm? Because a rift a hundred feet in the air is no problem for winged demons, but you and your precious C-4 might have a
hard time flying. Or maybe the rift will open up in the middle of a demon encampment. But, hey, you'll have a few tons of C-4, so you'll be fine. If C-4 even works there, that is, which none of us know for sure.” His smile grew fierce as the young man's expression went sullen. “And it's a good thing you have othersight so you can see the arcane traps and wards. Oh, wait, you can't see the arcane.”

Pellini lifted his hands and spun out a sweet little coil of potency. I had to bite the side of my cheek to keep from smiling. He'd been practicing. A lot. The kid couldn't see the odd, Kadir-style aversion sigil, but it was clear he felt it as Pellini advanced on him. His face paled, and he stumbled back.

“Y'think you can remember to stay tough when you're pissing yourself?” Pellini said through clenched teeth.

“Pellini,” I murmured and took hold of his forearm. “Stand down.”

He stabbed a glance my way then exhaled and dispelled the sigil. Immediately the private straightened, gulping as he tried to regain his tough-guy composure.

“Remember that sensation,” I said, voice hard. “That was one variety of an aversion, and Pellini snapped it out in a matter of seconds. Now think about being faced with large numbers of creatures who've lived and breathed the arcane for their entire existence—and I'm talking hundreds or
thousands
of years.” I paused to let that sink in, pleased to see that I had the attention of everyone in the area, even Captain Hornak. “Whether it's a rift or a gate, we can't go in blind. Remember the Dirty Thirty? They were brave and ready for anything, just like you.” A week after the incursions began, DIRT Command—against my advice—sent thirty volunteers through the New York rift. A few days later, demons were taken down wearing weapon harnesses made from their uniforms and skin and teeth. “You want your mama to bury a hunk of your skin, private?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, ma'am.”

“Good. Because I don't want to tell her that's all we could find.” I turned my back on the private then stalked toward Captain Hornak with Pellini beside me. Hornak frowned at us as if we were the root of all his problems and drew breath to speak, but I beat him to the punch.

“Get me a secure line to General Starr,” I snapped out. I knew he wanted to order us both to come to HQ with him, but I had zero time for bureaucratic games.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but Hornak didn't have an argument for my request. A few minutes later I was tucked in the back office with Pellini and a video conference connection to a harried General Starr. Behind him, a wall screen showed a world map practically glowing with rift activity.

I gave the general a full report, including several details the statuefied people likely weren't too clear on, and made sure to point out that Pellini and I were still the only ones who could get near the gate. Hopefully, that would quash any ideas of sending troops through. I also emphasized that Kadir had departed peacefully and of his own accord, but left out my suspicion that he might still be on Earth since there was nothing to be done about it at the moment.

When I finished, the general grimaced and scratched a hand over his stubbled scalp. “Thank god you were there to keep the situation from going batshit crazy.” He hooked his thumb toward the screen behind him. “A crisis at the Spires on top of all the new rifts would've screwed us royally. We're down to raw recruits and shitty equipment already. Don't have even half enough SkeeterCheaters to do the job.”

I straightened in surprise. “I thought production was on track?”

“A rift in New Mexico took out a train carrying critical components. Whole goddamn train is gone.” General Starr scowled. “I don't know if the demons knew about the cargo or just got lucky, but either way it set us back months. Those nets might as well be made from Elvis Presley's hair for what they're worth now.” He shook his head. “We'll have to figure out another way to deal with the fuckers. When you get a chance, write up your report on this incident and then one with projections for anticipated SkeeterCheater need and possible alternatives.”

“Yes, sir,” I said with a confident nod while I sent up a silent wail of despair.

“Good deal. Get on that.” With that he clicked off.

Pellini snorted. “I am so incredibly glad I'm not the Arcane Commander.”

“Paperwork.” I sighed. “Can't I just go through a rift with some C-4?”

The house was quiet when we returned, and the mouth-watering aroma of lasagna filled the air—reminding me that I had no idea when I'd last eaten. A cookie in the war room? And that was hours ago.

Cory lay on the fold-out sofa and had progressed from merely hell-gel-covered to the Phase Three red-egg state. Giovanni still slept peacefully, and Bryce and Sharini Tandon huddled in the war room, reviewing our surveillance camera footage. At the kitchen table, Jill perused a fat tome from the basement library, while two huge pans of lasagna sat atop the stove.

She glanced up. “I just took them out of the oven. They need to cool down about ten minutes before you cut them.”

“I wish everything else would cool down so easily. Now we have even more weirdness.” As I hunted up a cold drink, I filled her in on the gate and Kadir situation.

“Huh. That's interesting.” Jill gave me a speculative look. “About an hour ago Bryce told me he could feel Seretis again through the bond—just barely enough to know that he's alive. I wonder if there's any connection to what happened with the Spires?”

“I don't know, but that's fantastic news. How is Bryce handling it?”

Pleased affection lit her eyes. “It's like a thousand pounds lifted off his shoulders. Nice to have some good news.” She closed the tome. “I'm glad you got to talk to Paul, too. Plus now we know the hostile demons aren't the only ones still in
existence in the demon realm. I'm not thrilled your Lord Creepy Psycho is on the loose, though.”

As she straightened papers, I glanced out the kitchen window to see Rhyzkahl doing pushups on the roof of his house. “Fuck the lords,” I murmured.

“Not
that
one, I hope!”

I snorted. “Don't worry, that one is never getting 'twixt my nethers again.” I turned away from the window. “‘Fuck the lords' is what that big demon said a few seconds before he ripped out his own throat and dropped a buttload of gold in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.”

Jill pursed her lips. “Was it a Jontari warlord?”

“It was a reyza, the biggest . . .” I fumbled to a stop. “Wait. A whatsit whosit?”

“I'm probably pronouncing it all wrong,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I was guessing based on the gold, but you'd know better than I.”

“I've never seen a demon wear gold before, but the Piggly Wiggly demon shouted ‘Jontari' before he died. What do you know about it?”

“Oh! Not a lot. I came across a reference to warlords wearing gold. Armbands. Wing, ear, tail, and nose jewelry. That sort of thing.”

“Back up.” I felt as if I'd stumbled into deep water while wading in a familiar pool. “I've never heard of demon warlords either.”

Jill looked puzzled. “They're the leaders of the major Jontari clans.” At my baffled expression, she narrowed her eyes. “Are you messing with me?”

“I swear, I'm not.”

She didn't seem convinced but carried on. “Jontari are the demons
not
associated with the lords. Like, ninety-nine percent of the demon population.”

“That's impossible.” But even as I said it, doubt crept in. Though I'd lived in the demon realm for months, I'd only seen relatively small numbers of demons in the various lords' realms. A couple of hundred total at the most. “No, I guess it's not impossible. I've been finding gaps in my knowledge big enough to drive a planet through. This could be yet another sizable hole.”

She tapped her chin in thought. “Maybe it's not an accident. Between the library here and the database the librarians are maintaining, I only found one sketch, one memoir, and three
partial sentences in as many different books—with adjacent pages torn out.”

I tensed. “As if someone was trying to erase knowledge of them?”

“Could be,” she said. “The sketch looked a bit like a graa and had text beside it in Aramaic, but there was a margin note that said ‘Jontari.' I only noticed it because that was the only word on the page written in the Roman alphabet. The memoir was uncensored, probably because it was wedged inside a book of insect drawings and got overlooked. It has a story about the summoning of a Jontari ruling warlord. An imperator.” She made a face. “Before the summoner could finish feeding blood to the demon, it ripped him in half and ate his guts as he died.”

A shudder went through me. I'd been eviscerated by a demon, though not during a summoning. And what was the deal with
feeding
it blood? The blood I spilled during summonings was to add strength and power to the diagram. “Was there anything else?”

“That's all I remember. It's in your great great great grandmother's memoir from the eighteen hundreds.”

“Hang on. That doesn't fly. The ways were closed after the cataclysm in the late sixteen hundreds, up until 1908. Summonings weren't possible.”

Jill nodded sagely. “The summoning was by
her
great great great great great
great
grandfather. She'd translated his memoir into a more readable modern English, preserving what had been passed down to her.” She stood and headed for the basement. “Be right back. You'll probably get more out of the memoir than I did.”

“Yeah, I need to see it,” I said absently as I mulled over the implications. The Jontari bombshell made sense once I got past the shock of it. My awesome syraza bodyguard, Eilahn, had mentioned demon cities, though I'd assumed she meant within the realms of the lords. An uneasy knot formed in my belly. Why hadn't anyone told me about the Jontari? Helori had taken me on an extended tour of the demon realm but had apparently bypassed cities and clans and warlords—including the Jagged Peaks, homeland of the rift-creating demons. And what about Mzatal? Had he kept me in the dark on purpose? It didn't feel right, but the silence of the lords, demons, and demahnk, coupled with relevant pages missing from books, hinted at a colossal conspiracy.

Because apparently we didn't have enough conspiracy and intrigue bullshit going on already.

Jill returned and set a battered, leather-bound book on the table. “I'm off to do the evening perimeter check with Bryce. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Text if you need me.”

“Mosquitos are out. Don't forget the repellent.”

She snagged the bottle from the counter and headed out the back door. I dished up a plate of lasagna and plunked into a chair to eat and peruse the memoir. The relevant entry sprawled in a thin, spidery hand over ten ink-splattered pages, and dove straight into the gory details of the summoning and aftermath. With every sentence, my grip on what I thought I knew about summoning slipped. Bindings and protections four times the number I'd been taught to lay. Several sigil configurations I'd never heard of. The Jontari reyza guzzling the summoner's blood sacrifice from a bowl before the demon exploited a flawed potency anchor and shredded the bindings. The lengthy torment of the summoner before the demon killed him. The crippling of the witness—the summoner's daughter—and the slaughter of dozens in the household.

The story ended with the warning:
When conjuring Dekkak, secure the perimeter with thirty binding layers lest the beast break free and strike you down.

It went on to say that for most Jontari, twenty bindings would do. That told me they were summoned frequently enough to have a protocol. I read the half page of general information then closed the book, cold. My training had been full of warnings of how dangerous the demons were and how it was vital to make satisfactory offerings in order to avoid horrific death by teeth and claws. But the truth was, I'd never been in real danger from any demon I'd summoned. Sure, the ritual itself could kill you if the diagram was chalked wrong or the potency not anchored, but the demons themselves had been . . . accommodating. Lord-affiliated demons. Not Jontari. I'd paid them with popcorn and books and bacon, not blood.

I felt as if Idris and Tessa and I had been playing at summoning. And I had a feeling the rest of the modern summoners were in the same boat, since no one had ever sent one of those badass warlords after me, even in the worst of times. We were being played, but why? And by whom? And how exactly did “fuck the lords” fit into it all?

The weight of the day settled heavily upon me. It was still
light out, but it didn't matter. I needed a reprieve from world chaos and screwy demon conspiracies—and sleep was the only way to get it. I texted Bryce and Pellini to monitor DIRT calls then shambled to my room.

Bumper, Fillion, and Squig squinted at me with sleepy eyes from the foot of the bed. I stripped off my uniform and dropped it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Yawning, I stepped over it to snag a clean t-shirt, then stopped and stared at the pile.
The grove tree leaf!
“Oh, no,” I moaned, heart sinking at the thought of it crushed and forgotten. I scrabbled through the pants pockets to find it but, to my amazed relief, not only was it undamaged, it gave off a soft glow, emerald on one side and amethyst on the other.

Clearly, I needed a better way to carry it. I placed it on the nightstand and dug an old cord necklace out of the bottom of my jewelry box. Maybe I could wrap embroidery floss around the stem and tie it to the cord? But not now. Wrapping and tying would have to be a tomorrow project. I flopped into bed and turned out the light.

The leaf glimmered in the darkness. I peered at it then sat up, delighted and astonished. What had been a single solid stem now formed an unbroken natural loop around the cord. A laugh welled up inside me as I slipped the necklace over my head.

I needed a little inexplicable magic in my life.

•   •   •

Beyond the balcony, demons wheeled and dived in an intricate aerial dance. The waterfall below cascaded to its distant pool with a comforting hiss as the sea reflected rich orange and purples of the setting sun.

Mzatal draped his arm over my shoulders and drew me to his side. “Would that we could be here now, beloved.”

I snuggled close, cradled in the luxurious warmth of his aura. “We
are
here, zharkat,” I said with a smile. “At least, I'm sure I am.”

“I defer to your assessment.” He laughed, a rich sound that twined around my heart and set me laughing with him. I gripped his thick braid of obsidian-black hair and tugged hard. He rewarded me with a groan that thrummed in his chest, then he caught me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, cradled his face between my hands and kissed him in the light of the dying sun. My hips rocked against his as he deepened the kiss.

A demon bellowed.

A strangely familiar woman yanked my shoulder, her eyes wide with fear.

I tumbled from Mzatal's arms and over the balcony wall, plummeted toward rocks and sea while Elinor's scream drowned out the roar of wind.

Heart pounding, I jerked awake. Dust motes floated lazily in early morning light that seeped around the edges of my curtains. A squirrel fussed in the tree outside my window, and the air held a whisper of coffee and biscuits.

Eerie remnants of the dream lingered. I hurried to flick on the lamp. Mzatal's aura immersed me still, but darker, more—

I flung off the covers, grabbed shorts from the floor and yanked them on then sprinted down the hall to the kitchen window.

Mzatal was
here
, crouched in the center of the nexus. I ran out the door, pulse hammering with a rush of elation and apprehension, then stopped on the bottom step to drink in the sight of him.

Moisture from a humid Louisiana morning clung to the grass and slicked the porch rails, yet the surface of the nexus remained dry and unaffected. Mzatal looked dressed for battle, in close-fitting pants and shirt in a color somewhere between black and dried blood. A cord of the same color bound the thick braid that hung down his back.

On the far side of the nexus, Rhyzkahl paced a short arc, eyes trained on Mzatal, and jaw set in anger.

With the deadly grace of a lion, Mzatal stood and drew his essence blade, Khatur, from a sheath at his side.

Worry punched through me. I'd
never
known him to carry Khatur in a sheath. He'd always sent it away to whatever dimensional pocket of space-time the essence blades went when not in use. Had he become so dependent upon the knife that he wouldn't let it out of his sight?

He turned toward me. Eyes locked on mine, he drew the blade across his left palm. An unwholesome hiss of satisfaction whispered through my mind like the breath of an alien wind: the nightmarish sentiments of Khatur. My uneasiness spiraled higher.

Mzatal flicked his hand, spattering blood onto the nexus. It sizzled when it struck the black surface, and a white hot glow raced through the delicate silver tracings.

My sigil.

Heat blossomed in my head like reverse brain freeze. I grabbed the porch railing to keep from losing my balance.

The glow on the nexus crept outward as Mzatal continued to bleed. Warmth spread from the top of my head through my neck and into my chest. Beyond Mzatal's aura of power, I felt
him
, felt his intensity. Pulse thrumming, I crossed the grass to the outer edge of Rhyzkahl's prison.

Rhyzkahl strode toward me. “What is he doing?” he asked, voice edged with frustration.

“He'll tell you if he wants you to know,” I said archly. I wasn't about to admit I had the same question. Rhyzkahl growled and turned his back on me.

Blood disappeared from the surface of the knife as if sucked into the metal. Mzatal sheathed Khatur and held up his left hand. A different essence blade coalesced against his palm, and cold slid through me.
Xhan.

Rhyzkahl staggered as if struck, naked shock flashing over his face before he regained composure. Xhan was Rhyzkahl's blade. The one he'd used to carve the sigils into my flesh. He'd lost the knife at the plantation battle after Zakaar severed their bond. I'd last seen it when Jesral picked it up—or tried to, and had been forced to wrap it in a cloth. I wasn't at all surprised that Mzatal took it from Jesral, yet I'd never in a million years expected him to actually
wield
it. And, clearly, neither had Rhyzkahl. He stepped to the inner boundary of his prison, eyes on his blade and hands fisted white at his sides.