The Trouble with Demons (43 page)

The whole situation had suicide mission written all over it.

I didn’t need to project my thoughts to Mychael and Tam; I was sure they’d arrived at the same gloom-and-doom conclusion.

“Stay here,”
said Mychael’s voice in my head.

I didn’t have to say or think “like hell”; my expression said it perfectly.

Mychael gave me a look; you know the one. Then he handed me the best gift I’d ever gotten from any man—a knife. Actually it was more like a short machete. I loved it. It didn’t increase my confidence level in where we were going, but it went a long way toward making me feel better about not dying immediately when we went in.

Mychael said.

I felt Tam’s magic power up.
“Veils?”

Tam grinned in a flash of fangs, but there was death in his eyes.
“Race you.”

“Raine, you’re with me,”
Mychael said.

If Tam didn’t like that arrangement, he didn’t say or think anything. I didn’t care who went with whom; I didn’t like the idea of splitting up, period. Demons with an evil rock of power and the means to open it didn’t seem like the best time to divide forces. But Mychael didn’t get to be paladin by being a crappy tactician, so until something jumped out of the dark and started killing us, I’d go along with his plan.

Mychael gave Vegard and Tam half a minute to get to where they were going. Then looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the faint light.
“Can you veil?”

Damn. I had a feeling he was going to ask that. I’d never done it before, but thanks to the Saghred, I could do pretty much anything I put my mind to. Problem was, I’d never put my mind to wrapping myself in a veiling spell, and now wasn’t the time for a screw up.

Mychael took my hesitation as an answer. He reached out and took my hand, and once again, his magic ran up my arm and into every part of me. Instantly, it felt as though I were still there but not quite. I looked down at myself and up at Mychael. We were both still there.

“No one can see us,”
he assured me.
“Including demons.”

We slipped silently—and hopefully invisibly—around the corner into the gym. The hand-holding thing worked out well. I was right-handed and Mychael was a lefty, so our respective weapon hands were free. I was holding the knife Mychael had given me; Mychael’s weapon hand was empty. Though considering what he’d done to the demon queen earlier, his empty hand was a lethal hand. But if anything came at me, veils and hand-holding were history.

We weren’t alone. I couldn’t see the proof, but I sure as hell sensed it. The room smelled like a gym was supposed to, with two notable and gut-wrenching exceptions—blood and brimstone. Blood in a gym wasn’t unusual, but this was fresh, and it hadn’t come from a demon. Brimstone meant we were in the right place with the wrong people.

The demon queen didn’t want to kill us. Usually someone wanting to keep you alive was a good thing—unless that someone was the queen of demons. In that situation, given a choice between taken dead or alive, I’d go with dead. And if I died, I was taking as many demons as I could down with me.

We moved into the room, Mychael intent on any shadow, brush of air, or sense of movement. Considering recent bad experiences, I was checking out the ceiling. Just because we didn’t hear clicking or scraping didn’t mean Volghuls weren’t dangling from the rafters like giant bats waiting to drop on us.

We didn’t have to look far to find the demon queen. She was waiting for us in a picture straight out of a nightmare.

Illuminated by a pool of sickly green light, the demon queen held the Scythe of Nen tightly against the throat of a captive Guardian, and a young blond elf lay dead at her feet—an elf in a Guardian uniform who couldn’t have been much older than Piaras. His eyes were open and fixed, and the blood pooling on his chest said how he’d died. The bloody Scythe in the demon queen’s hand said who had done the killing.

And clutched in the captive Guardian’s white-knuckled hands was the Saghred.

Oh no.

I froze and held my breath. He might as well have been holding a bomb with a lit fuse. If one drop of blood fell from the Scythe onto the Saghred, he was worse than dead.

He’d be a Saghred sacrifice.

“Do you desire this, elflings?” Either she could see us, or the bitch just knew we were there.

The Guardian she held captive hadn’t been cut. The blood on the Scythe’s blade was from the dead elf. She’d wet the blade in preparation for plunging it into the Saghred. I knew this as sure as if she’d told me—or as if the Saghred had told me.

I dropped Mychael’s hand. She knew we were here, and I wanted both of my hands free.

“Yes, elflings,” the demon queen purred when we materialized, pulling the Guardian closer. He gasped and shuddered; I didn’t blame him. Some things you just didn’t want touching you. “You all appreciate the helplessness of your situation. Soon you will experience helplessness as you never have before. The soul of another violating your body, pushing your soul aside, taking you completely. I have heard it said that you will remain aware through all of it—the taking, the possession—for the rest of your lives.” She smiled at us, pleasant, almost human, as if she’d just given us the best news in the world. “And you will be helpless to stop anything your new master or mistress wants your body to do.”

Just when I thought I couldn’t be more scared, someone came along and redefined the word for me. Killed by what you feared the most. Laurian Berel had been killed because of a dagger; he’d been terrified of daggers. I wouldn’t be that lucky. I wouldn’t be killed by what I feared most—I’d get to live with it, and wish I were dead. No control, helpless, completely at the mercy of another. Sarad Nukpana would love to have the job. He’d love to have me. I glanced down at the Saghred held tight in the Guardian’s hands. Colors swirled just beneath the surface, flowing, circling. Souls waiting and eager to get out.

“A sacrifice to use it; a sacrifice to open it.” My voice only shook a little. Good for me. A lot better than I’d expected. Fear, mixed with an urge to run, blended together with a desire to bloody my own blade with royal demonic black.

The queen inclined her head in a single, regal nod. “One must die, so that my lord and king may live again.” She gazed down at the dead elf. “He gave himself for a noble cause. Isn’t that what you teach your young ones, Paladin? Nobility and self-sacrifice?”

“He
gave
nothing.” Magic spun in the air with Mychael’s words. “You took.” He was a step closer to her; I hadn’t seen him move. “And you will pay.”

The queen laughed, bright and brittle—and nervous. She stepped back, pulling her prisoner with her. “And you will make me? I think not. You will not risk losing another of your own. That is a great weakness in you—you’re unwilling to lose even one, even when you have no chance of preventing it. Defiance in the face of futility. It is a weakness that my husband’s soul inhabiting your body will cure you of.” Her gaze turned lascivious. “You will be cured of many such weaknesses—and inhibitions.”

There were a few Volghuls around her that I could see; I was sure there were more in the dark. When it came to bad guys, there were always more in the dark.

“Kuitak?”

“Your will, my queen?” said a Volghul from the shadows at her right shoulder.

“If the paladin moves or uses that magnificent voice of his again, tear out his Guardian’s throat.”

In the blink of an eye, the Volghul had the man’s throat in his claws, and the demon queen held the Scythe poised above the Saghred.

“I have everything I need.” Her smile spread as she looked at Mychael. “A strong and desirable body for my husband to inhabit, and the elfling to wield the Saghred for us.” She spoke without turning to a pair of Volghuls standing behind her. “Find the goblin. He is here; I have caught his scent.” She inhaled in pure pleasure. “Still delectable,” she breathed. “Bring him to me; do what you will to the human with him.”

One of the Volghuls ran a quick black tongue over purple lips. “We hunger, Your Majesty.”

She dismissively waved her free hand. “Then feed on him, but be quick about it.”

My power was free to do with as I willed. No Hellgate distortion was holding me back, and the queen knew it. But the captive Guardian held the source of that power clutched in white-knuckled hands. If I tapped my Saghred-spawned power, would the Saghred take him? Would it take all of us? I had no idea what the damned rock would do.

I knew what I wanted to do, what I had to do. That Guardian wasn’t going to die. Mychael wasn’t going to be possessed by the demon king and then had by his bitch bride. I didn’t care what I had to do to save him, but he would walk out of here alive, soul intact. We all would.

She had the Saghred, but I
was
the Saghred. And I was really pissed off.

Mychael’s hand lightly touched my arm, telling me to wait. He was buying time. We didn’t have any time; the Guardian had even less time, and the smug demon not a dozen feet in front of me was acting like she had all the time in the world. She wanted Tam here to watch.

Tam.

He wasn’t here. That was what Mychael was waiting for. And from the silence, the demons hadn’t found him or Vegard. We would have heard that. All we heard was silence. Deadly silence. Killing quiet. I’d seen Tam do it before, and I was sure Vegard was equally qualified, and both of them couldn’t be more motivated. I put on my best poker face and kept it there—and I kept my thoughts on the captive Guardian and the sweetness of payback.

Tam was fast.

He rose up behind the queen’s guards like Death himself, and with one sweep of his demon-killer blade, two Volghuls lost their heads. From the surprised hisses and thumps in the dark, Vegard was having similar success.

Mychael’s voice rang out, and the Volghul’s claws clenched in rigid paralysis at the big vein in the Guardian’s throat. The queen snatched the Saghred from his hands and plunged the Scythe into it, slicing through the stone like living flesh.

My flesh.

I screamed. The Saghred and I were one. Flesh of my flesh. My screams turned to agonized gasps. No air. So cold. I tried to stay on my feet. I had to; I had to get that rock. I felt myself sinking to the floor. You’re not bleeding, Raine. You haven’t been stabbed. Get up!

Tendrils of multicolored light writhed their way out of the Saghred. I felt each soul flow up the blade as if it were coming out through my own skin. Elongated shapes of dark shadow and mist, breaking free into the air around us, circling, searching.

The demon queen saw it and laughed, high and wild, and utterly insane.

Until the light from Mychael’s hand took her in the chest and flung her backward, slamming her against the far wall. Tam was waiting for her.

Mychael caught the Saghred as it fell.

I heard Tam’s shout, Vegard’s roar, and everything slowed until time barely moved at all.

“Drop it!” It was my voice screaming at him, but I sounded so far away. Too far to reach him in time.

Mychael didn’t drop the Saghred; he didn’t even shield himself. He couldn’t do what he had to with shields in his way. He held the stone tightly against him and pulled on the Scythe with everything he had.

It didn’t budge.

It was a voice and not a voice. It could have been the rock; it could have been me. I was the bond servant; Mychael wasn’t. I had blood on me where the queen had slashed my neck. I was a Saghred sacrifice waiting to happen. Another wraith flowed up the Scythe to freedom. Maybe the Saghred was too busy spitting out souls to suck mine in. Maybe.

It didn’t matter. Mychael wasn’t going to die or worse because of me.

I was the Saghred; and the Saghred was mine.

I dragged myself to Mychael’s side and put my hand over his, over the Scythe. Something in the Saghred responded to my touch.

Or someone.

Mychael felt it. He moved his hand from the Scythe to grip the Saghred in both hands, holding it for me. I pulled on the blade.

And someone inside the stone pushed.

My father was pushing the Scythe out. When the blade was out, the gash would close. He knew this; he was telling me this. He would remain inside, giving up his chance for freedom.

My father was sacrificing himself.

My vision blurred with tears. Sobs I couldn’t stop came between gasps for breath.

Please don’t. Don’t do this. You can survive; we’ll find a way. I need you.
Tears streamed down my face and onto the Scythe, onto the Saghred.

The Scythe jerked in my hand, like someone had grabbed hold of the blade.

Dad.

It felt like he was holding my hand, holding on tight. I desperately pulled air into my lungs, put both hands on the Scythe’s grip, and pulled with the last bit of strength I had, pulling like I was dragging a drowning man from a flood.

The Scythe quivered weakly in my hand. A thin sliver of silvery mist flowed up the blade and into the air above us. It hovered there, flickering with pinpoint motes of light, before gently settling into the dead elven Guardian. The body took a shuddering breath and his now-living eyes looked directly at me.

“Daughter,” he whispered.

The Scythe came free, and the Saghred sealed.

I quickly crawled to his side and took his hand, holding it tightly in mine. Deathly cold was surrendering to life-giving warmth. The body was a young elf; the soul looking out through his eyes was my father. He smiled and weakly squeezed my hand. As he closed his eyes, his chest continued to rise and fall.