Legacy of the Demon (7 page)

Gallagher stopped a couple of feet into the room, face haunted. I realized with sick certainty that this patient was David Hawkins. But why wasn't everyone wearing oodles of hazmat gear? I'd always thought that was the protocol for unknown plagues.

Dr. Patel peered at the monitor. “I've observed several distinct phases so far. This patient was in Phase One when he came in last night—the red slime. He moved into Phase Two—gel-coated, but lying flat and rigid. This morning he curled into a fetal position, and the gel expanded to completely cocoon him: Phase Three.” She looked at me with a mix of hope and desperation. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No,” I said. It wasn't a total lie since Cory had apparently only reached Phase Two. “If you don't know the cause, why aren't the patients in quarantine?”

“Word came down through Chief Garner that there's no need,” she said as if that was explanation enough.

“Ah. Gotcha.” I knew damn well that an ordinary FBI Division Chief would never be allowed to overrule CDC policy. However, Zack Garner was in no way ordinary, and clearly there was some demahnk-level mind manipulation going on. I had no clue what Zack was up to, but I had faith that propagating a plague wasn't part of it. He simply knew it wasn't contagious in the conventional sense and saw no point in making everyone go through the godawful hassle and headache and expense of quarantine procedures when there was no need for it.

“Give me a moment to assess,” I said, easing closer to the gel-egg thing. The gel was completely opaque, giving no
indication that a human lay curled inside. Though the physical surface appeared smooth, arcane patterns covered it in a thick layer of glimmering hexagonal cells reminiscent of a honeycomb. The resonance was similar to Cory's, but far more organized. In the center, a tumor the size of a basketball pulsed, with delicate tendrils of potency branching from it like blood vessels. Only their arcane network revealed the shape of the man it covered.

I met Dr. Patel's eyes. “I'm sorry. I don't know what's causing this other than it's definitely arcane. However, I can give you more than you'll get in a physical assessment. The tumor in the middle isn't draining him. It's
feeding
him.”

She nodded with enthusiasm. “Considering the outcome, that makes perfect sense. I
knew
the transformation energy had to come from somewhere. How does—”

Dr. Patel to unit twelve, emergency,
a voice announced from her pocket.
Dr. Patel. Unit twelve.

She made a noise of frustration. “A.C. Gillian, I'll be right back. Agent Gallagher will continue your briefing while I'm gone.” She burned a you'd-better-do-it-right glare in his direction then hustled from the room.

Damn it. What the hell had Patel meant by “outcome” and “transformation energy”?

Gallagher moved in close. “Can you do anything for Hawkins?”

“Nothing directly,” I said with a sigh. “What's his prognosis? I mean if they manage not to kill him.”

“We've observed two very different outcomes,” he said, eyes dark and grim. “I'll show you.”

I followed him out of the room but paused when he started down the corridor. “I need to make a pit stop first,” I said. “Won't be a minute.” I didn't wait for a response before ducking into the ladies' room and on into a stall. As quickly as my little thumbs could move, I texted Pellini: <
Move Cory to living room. Don't worry about quarantine. Don't disturb gel gummy stuff! Will kill Cory if it's messed up! Will tell you more as soon as I can.
> I shoved my phone into my pocket then flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and returned to the corridor.

Gallagher looked up from his own phone as I returned. “Got word of three new cases. Quebec, San Diego, and Boston. All are refugees from the Beaulac area, but haven't confirmed if they were here the day of the blast.”

“I'll wager they were.”

“I'm not taking that bet.” He shook his head. “At least the media hasn't gotten hold of it yet.”

“I'm surprised it hasn't already gone viral.” I grimaced. “You said you were going to show me the outcomes. Is that the transformation Dr. Patel mentioned?”

He nodded and led the way down the corridor again. “Don't be shocked by what you see.”

“I deal with demons, remember?” I wished I felt as confident as I sounded.

Gallagher
hmmfed
then ushered me into a room marked
Phase 4
. A woman rested peacefully on the bed with monitors attached and an IV in her arm.

I peered at her. “Yeah? She looks normal.”

Gallagher lifted her hand and uncurled her fingers. Her nails curved abruptly beyond the tips of her fingers and terminated in wicked sharp points. And it didn't look like malformed human nails, either. More like unnaturally natural claws. “That's not so bad. It's weird as hell, but—”

He drew the sheet back from the woman's legs.

I let out a low whistle. Fur—orange, white, and black—covered her hips and thighs, and a fluffy tail lay alongside her leg. Yep, showing me was better than telling me that Cory was going to turn into a cat. A calico cat. Seriously? “That's . . . definitely bizarre. How is this happening?”

“We don't know. We've had,” he glanced at the clock, “fourteen hours, and the only two patients we have in Phase Four arrived that way. We don't know how they transition or emerge from the jelly cocoon thing to become this.” He waved a hand at the transformed woman. “Both fours seem stable, though. Robust, in fact.”

“Is the other one a cat, too?”

A scream and metallic crash sounded down the corridor.

“Shit. That's the other Phase Four,” Gallagher said. Together, we hurried toward the source of the fracas. “He was in the jail when it blew,” he continued. “Nasty piece of work.”

We swung through the open door to see Dr. Patel and two nurses wrestling with a naked man who was handcuffed and shackled to the bedrails. Metal clanged against metal as the man jerked at the cuffs. He screamed again, a deep, inhuman sound, reminiscent of the bellow of a reyza.

A bolt of surprise went through me at the sight of the man's
face. I knew the guy—Earl Chris, a repeat offender who'd been in and out of jail over a dozen times for everything from drug possession to battery. Hell, I'd arrested him twice myself. But my shock went deeper than simple recognition. He'd always been a tough-looking guy, but now he had a mouth full of sharp teeth, and his skin from chest to toes was mottled like a mass of dark bruises. Yet at the same time it looked as tough as a rhino hide. And his hands—

“His left hand's out of the bag!” the nurse nearest me shouted.

The right hand remained bagged and cuffed, but stinger-tipped tentacles squirmed on the left where fingers should have been.

“Push another bolus of diazepam,” Dr. Patel ordered. “Jacobs, get that bag!”

Jacobs had his hands full with the struggling patient. I slapped the call button then snatched the bag from the floor. But before I could jam it over the tentacles, Earl yanked on the left handcuff, breaking it.

Everything descended into chaos. Gallagher dove at Earl's now-free hand, then jerked back as all five stingers jabbed into his arm. The second nurse moved forward with a syringe, but Earl ripped free of the other handcuff and tossed him against the wall even as Gallagher slumped to the floor.
Shit. Venom in the tentacles.

“Dr. Patel, get away from him!” I shouted, drawing my weapon. Where the hell was the backup?

Dr. Patel cried out in pain, gripping her stung hand as she stumbled back. Earl let out another horrible scream and ripped the leg shackles free.

“Stay back, Earl!” I brought my gun to bear on him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the doctor stagger and slump. Everyone was down except me, with no sign of any backup. “These people are trying to help you!”

Earl wasn't listening. He scrambled off the bed and lunged toward me. I gritted my teeth and shot him point-blank in the chest.

But instead of staggering or falling, he
imploded
, sucking down to a single point before the gunshot finished echoing through the room.

A wave of arcane passed through me even as Earl poofed out of existence. I whirled to see Zack Garner standing behind me.
Blue eyes, tanned face, and sun-bleached hair—still looking more like a surfer than a federal agent, despite the suit and badge. Breaking the ptarl bond with Rhyzkahl had left him a shadow of his former self, and while part of me was thrilled to see him looking healthy and whole again, the rest was reeling from the last few minutes.

“What the fuck is this, Zack? Why didn't you do something sooner? All these people got hurt, and I had to kill the guy!”

He regarded me a moment then knelt beside Dr. Patel and laid his hand on her forehead. She stirred and sat up, a bewildered look on her face.

“It's all right, Aja,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “Go get cleaned up. We'll chat soon.”

“‘We'll chat soon?'” I sputtered. “That's
it
?” I caught Dr. Patel's arm as she moved for the door. “Are you okay?”

She gave me a serene smile that sent a chill down my spine. I released her then bit my tongue as Zack repeated the process with Gallagher and the two nurses. Better for them to be serene and out of harm's way when I had my
own
chat with Zack.

After the last nurse left, Zack lifted his hand, and the door swung closed. A twitch of his fingers set an aversion ward on it to keep people out. It was so subtle I could barely detect it, yet more powerful than any I'd felt before. And there was something indefinably
wrong
with it.

“Zack, what's going on?” I asked, perplexed. “Why are you here manipulating and vaporizing people?”

“Everything is going to be fine, Kara.” He stepped toward me.

I took an equal step back. I wasn't about to let him touch my forehead. “Fine as in ‘we'll chat soon'? No thanks, dude. I'm not into the serene-and-creepy thing.” Then again I wasn't sure if he actually
needed
to make physical contact to manipulate me. My gun felt comfortable and heavy in my hand. “I thought we were beyond the lies and games. Where's Ashava?”

He regarded me coolly. “Safe in hiding.”

I stared at him. “Zack, do you know what this is doing to Jill? Do you even care?”

His expression didn't change a whit. “She is a survivor.”

That wasn't an answer I ever expected from Zack, but neither was this iceman act. Or maybe I was seeing the real Zack for the first time? An unfamiliar mental touch brushed my mind. I
tensed and bared my teeth. “Fuck you. If you're going to manipulate me and make me forget I saw you, go ahead and do it already. But tell me how Ashava is first.”

“I'll know soon enough,” he said with a faint smile that was just . . . wrong. He dropped his head a fraction.

His answer made no sense, but I knew that in another few seconds I wouldn't remember it anyway.
Fuck!
I didn't know if it was possible to beat demahnk manipulation, but I was damn well going to try. I glared at him and clung to the memory of his face—Zack Garner, here at Fed Central. If I could hang on to that one tiny fragment, I'd find him again. Asshole. I hated this. Hated him.

His expression flickered in an instant of puzzlement.

And like looking at an optical illusion and seeing that the duck could also be a rabbit, I suddenly saw everything that was wrong. The wrongness of the ward. The unfamiliar touch. The wrong smile.
Wrong
because I was expecting Zack's energy signature and Zack's smile. I didn't recognize the signature, but I recognized that smile. Carl. No.
Xharbek
.

Even as the realization hit home, I leaped toward him, slammed him against the wall and jammed the muzzle of my gun up under his chin. That I could do so without him deflecting me told me everything I needed to know. He couldn't read me. Couldn't anticipate my moves. The real Zack Garner and Kadir's estranged demahnk ptarl, Helori, must have implanted mental protections in my head when they shielded other sensitive information.

“What happens to a non-corporeal being if I blow its corporeal head off?” I growled, finger on the trigger.

He didn't move—an eerie, unearthly stillness impossible for a human. “You hold the means to find out, Kara Gillian.”

“FUCK, you're annoying. I'm two pounds of pressure away from scattering sparkly demahnk brains all over the ceiling, and you're still playing the evil-Gandhi act and spouting vague bullshit.” I held the means, all right. Maybe I couldn't actually kill him, but either way I wasn't going to come away from this empty-handed.

I drank in his signature, allowed its resonance to suffuse me. At least once a day, I searched Earth's arcane flows for any hint of my four AWOL people. Now I'd have a fifth signature in my arsenal. This bastard didn't know where they were, but not
through lack of seeking. If he left even the slightest fart of a trail, I was going to sniff it out and use it to locate the others.

“You are not a murderer, Kara Gillian,” he said and teleported away a microsecond before my bullet buried itself in the ceiling.

“Pussy!” I yelled into the emptiness.

The morning after the Beaulac PD valve explosion two months ago, I woke up to the world in shock and the FBI at my door. Well, at the end of my driveway, since very powerful arcane protections kept them out. They needed to get my input, they'd said, since I was a consultant for the task force.

I, very stupidly, believed them.

On the sixth day of my detention as a suspected terrorist, Gallagher and two other agents barged into my cell and announced that my house and property had been seized by the U.S. government, and if I wished to spare myself the certainty of life in federal prison, I would cooperate and allow them to take possession. They assured me that it was only a matter of time before they broke through the arcane protections, and therefore I was merely delaying the inevitable and making my predicament much worse.

When they finished their little speech, I laughed and said, “Good luck with that.”

At that point, they attempted to convince me that everyone who was currently holed up behind my fence would go to jail forever and then some if I didn't cooperate, but I could spare them that fate if I simply accompanied the agents to—

I stopped them and said, “Let's cut to the chase. You guys want to poke around my house and property because you have satellite imagery and probably drone video that shows something very interesting in my back yard. Only problem is that you can't get past the fence. Not one bloody inch. And anything aerial you send can't get within three hundred feet vertically. So how about we skip all the bullshit. I'll take you three agents—
and only you three—onto my property and give you the grand tour. You can even keep me cuffed and shackled and duct taped if it makes you feel safer.”

Which they did. They had no doubt there was a catch of some sort, but they also knew they weren't getting past the fence without my cooperation. Within an hour we were in my driveway, which was when I discovered that my super cool and smart demonic lord boyfriend Mzatal had included a nifty feature on the new and improved back yard nexus—allowing me to tap it from anywhere on my property. It was a mere fraction of the power I could pull when standing on its surface, but it was all I needed.

Long story short, I gave the nice FBI agents an up close and personal demonstration of the power of the nexus, which included their very own aerial—though upside down—view of my house, and made it very clear that I could have easily squashed them flat if I'd wanted to. I then told them to stop fucking wasting my time and maybe now we could work together and do something about the rifts that had started opening up. Oh, and it looks like a rift is about to open up on the south end of Lake Pearl, so you jackholes might want to make sure that area is evacuated. I didn't tell them that I'd sensed the rift via the nexus, and they didn't push the issue of how I knew. It helped that I was right about the rift.

Needless to say, that was the end of my detention. It was also the beginning of DIRT, and how I became the Arcane Commander.

The protections that kept the agents and other official busybodies out were kickass, but Bryce Taggart—former hitman and my current security expert—informed me that, with the increased activity, we needed to add a few measures. He proceeded to hand me a breakdown of the expected costs, which included actual human security guards and improved surveillance and communication systems. I added the other costs of living that I expected to incur, as well as healthy salaries for all of us since why-the-hell-not and yes I was still mega-pissed about being detained for six days, then gave my funding request to the powers-that-be, told them it was what I needed in order to best do what needed to be done, and was utterly shocked when I got it.

The very next day, Bryce brought in portable buildings and handpicked security guards: people who he knew had excellent
skills, experience, and reliability, but also wouldn't freak about any weird shit that might happen. We had Jordan Kellum, a former world-class powerlifter who was barely 5'4" but strong as an ox; Chet Watson, gunsmith and firearms expert; David Nguyen, an expert tree man—which was a seriously useful skill with the zillion pines I had on my property; Dennis Roper, a whiz at logistics and planning; Lilith Cantrell, our resident tech guru; Ronda Greitz, mechanic and engineer-type; Bubba Suarez, construction and all around handyman; Nils Engen, medic; Sharini Tandon, who had umpteen black belts and considerable military experience; and several others who didn't necessarily possess a definable specialty but were sharp and intuitive and darn good picks.

The guard shack at the end of my driveway was one of the many new additions. I stopped in front of the gate and rolled my window down. The guard on duty was Tandon—tall and lean, with ink-black hair pulled back into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. She gave me a smile but kept a hand on her sidearm and maintained a distance of no less than ten feet from my vehicle.

“Afternoon, Miss Kara,” she said. “Any word on when football season might start up again?”

“Afternoon, Sharini. I figure the Saints will come marching in when the moon turns red with blood.” A coded question and response that changed daily and would hopefully trip up a shapechanged demon attempting to infiltrate. It wouldn't stop Xharbek since he could simply read the answer from the guard's mind, but the protections that Zack laid around the perimeter would hopefully be more up to the challenge.

She nodded at my correct reply then hit the button to open the gate. I continued up the long winding driveway and to my lovely hundred-year-old Acadian style house—still in need of a paint job, a task that kept slipping lower and lower on my list of priorities. Fifty yards to the east of the house was a double-wide mobile home, current residence of my best friend, Jill Faciane. To the west, five short and squat trailers sat in a line at the edge of the woods—housing and office space for the security team. It truly was a compound now.

Cory's Bertha was parked near the front of my house. I pulled in beside it, and as I climbed out of the Humvee a flash of red hair drew my gaze to the woods beyond the house. Jill, running the obstacle course. Probably not the first time she'd
gone through it today, either. Hardcore exercise was only one of the ways she'd been burning through her grief and anger over the kidnapping of Ashava.

Jill had been understandably devastated, but she wasn't the sort to wallow in misery. By the time the Feds sprang me from detention she was already working her ass off to get strong and tough. “I need to be ready to do whatever needs to be done to protect my daughter,” she'd told me.

I had zero doubt she'd be ready for anything. A mama grizzly was a fluffy bunny compared to Killer Jill.

And yet . . . I knew Jill, and she wasn't fooling me. She was like a Prince Rupert's Drop, able to withstand hammer blows to its body but exploding into bits at the slightest flick to its tail. The more time that passed without word of her daughter, the longer that vulnerable tail grew. High on my mental to-do list was “Talk to Jill about Xharbek being Fake-Zack,” but I was going to have to approach the issue carefully. I had no intention of keeping her in the dark, but the last thing I wanted was to get her hopes up about finding Ashava when nothing might result from it. I'd track her down after I finished assessing Cory. That would give me time to plan my approach.

She vaulted over a wall with an ease that showed her gymnastics background, did a diving roll under a log, then sprinted to the finish, face set in a snarl of determination. As she slowed, her expression shifted to a smile, and I realized Bryce was there, holding a stopwatch. I was too far away to hear what he said, but it made her laugh and smack his arm. A measure of my worry slipped away. Yep, Bryce was damn good for her.

Maybe one of these days he'd let Jill know how much he loved her.

No, he does that every day
, I thought with a smile. But at the same time he never crossed the line. Though Zack was nowhere to be found, he was still a part of Jill's life, and out of respect for their relationship, Bryce remained an absolute rock of support for her without ever doing anything to make her feel uncomfortable or pressured. And, in turn, she'd been there for him when he needed it. Bryce shared an essence bond with demonic lord Seretis—a union of minds that went deeper than the closest friendship. After the valve explosion, not only had the ways closed between Earth and the demon realm, but his bond with Seretis had gone silent as well. Yet that silence was more than
just a closed door. For Bryce, it was as if the room beyond it had been a favorite space, a treasured and safe retreat that was now an empty void.

Yep, Jill and Bryce were a good team, helping each other through loss and worry.

I grabbed my bag and headed toward the porch, reaching it as Pellini's chocolate Labrador trotted up the steps carrying a kitten by the scruff of its neck. Granger, by the look of it. One of the six kittens Fuzzykins had splorted out onto my bed around three months ago. They were more “catlets” than kittens now. Certainly a lot more rambunctious. To everyone's amusement, Sammy had become fiercely protective of the litter, even enduring swats and growls from Fuzzykins to be near them.

But two weeks ago, Sammy had saved Bumper from a red-tailed hawk, earning him belly rubs for life from every human in the compound. Even Fuzzykins stopped harassing him. Mostly. After that, Pellini and I fashioned an arcane perimeter around the house that had so far proved successful in containing the catlets, and kept hawks, owls, and other possible kitten snatchers out.

“You're fighting a losing battle, Sammy,” I told him even as he set Granger safely on the porch. No sooner did Sammy release her than the fluffball raced to the stairs. Without slowing, she launched herself off the edge and into the grass where two of her brothers were busy attacking a vicious and dangerous leaf. Bewildered, but determined, Sammy bounded down the steps and after them.

Fuzzykins lay sprawled in front of the door, apparently content to let Sammy run himself ragged chasing after her wild brood. I stooped to give her a head scratch which she accepted with a soft
brrrmp
—a far cry from the hiss-growl-scratch she'd have granted me before Angus McDunn reversed his skill-enhancing talent and stripped my arcane abilities. For reasons unknown, cats—especially Fuzzykins—hated summoners. It remained to be seen whether she'd resume hating me as I grew stronger in the arcane.

I stepped over her and let myself in then closed the door gently behind me. Cory was laid out on the opened sofa bed. Pellini sat in the armchair near him, working on his computer.

“Any change?” I asked.

Pellini closed his laptop. “He's sleeping. I think. Otherwise, everything's the same. No respiration, but his heart is beating.”

“We'll find an answer,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

“You're goddamn right we will.” Worry darkened Pellini's expression as he looked at Cory. “He's been through too much to end up as a fucking bug.”

“Might end up as something else entirely,” I said quickly. “The mutations seem to run the gamut of—” I grimaced and shook my head. “Sorry. That's not exactly reassuring.”

“It's cool.” He gave a soft snort. “I'll hold out hope that he turns into something kickass like a unicorn centaur.”

“You want him to have a horn growing out of his forehead?”

Pellini let out a breathy chuckle. “That'd be funny as shit. But still better than being a bug.”

I couldn't argue with that. “I'm going to grab a quick shower then get the nexus ready. Ten minutes, tops.”

“I'll let security know.”

•   •   •

I desperately wanted to let a blistering spray pound me for twenty minutes or so and maybe boil away some of my tension. Instead I settled for a mostly warm two-minute scrubdown that got the worst of the grime off. I hated to waste even that much time before starting my assessment of Cory, but physical impurities such as grime, sweat, and stench tended to interfere with tricky arcane processes, and I didn't know what I was up against.

As I toweled off, I scowled at my reflection out of habit. Eleven intricate scars covered nearly every inch of my torso—a sigil for each of the demonic lords, and souvenirs of Rhyzkahl's torture ritual. A twelfth sigil rested at the base of my spine, transformed by Szerain and his command of
rakkuhr
from an unfinished unifier scar into an enigmatic glyph, visible only to othersight. I still didn't know his purpose for creating it other than that it was connected to Ashava.

I yanked on clothing to cover the sigils and myself, then detoured through the kitchen, grabbed a protein shake and glugged it down. Movement caught my eye through the window, and I steadied my gaze on a shirtless Rhyzkahl tracing the sigils of the
shikvihr
. Crap. I didn't want him to know what was going on with Cory. I'd have to make sure the captive lord was in no position to watch us.

My back yard had changed significantly in the past two months. Mzatal had transformed the nexus slab from ordinary
concrete into an obsidian-black, diamond-hard surface that shimmered with intricate patterns of silvery threads. A five-foot-wide swath of grass ringed the nexus, and beyond it was another five-foot-wide ring, where little grass remained. That outer ring was Rhyzkahl's prison, where wards and protections—brilliantly crafted by Mzatal—kept him in place, like a planet that could neither approach nor retreat from the sun.

Though Mzatal was judge, jury, and jailer, I was the warden—not that I'd been given a choice in the matter. Still, I did my best to be fair and considerate. I'd even arranged to have a narrow house built for Rhyzkahl, one that fit perfectly along the curve of the circle, with doors at both ends to allow him to pass right through. While the center of his orbit was packed dirt, small gardens dotted the circumference, coiling vines of pumpkins and runner beans alongside neat clusters of beets and chard and tomatoes, with interspersed pockets of marigolds and cosmos, zinnias and celosia—all grown from seeds and soil that Rhyzkahl had requested. His activity fit with what I knew of the lords. They weren't averse to hard work nor did they feel themselves too good to pitch in as needed. They had demons to help with household tasks but didn't treat them like servants. Plus, the lords worked their asses off to keep their planet's potency from going out of whack. Rhyzkahl would probably go stir crazy if he couldn't keep busy.