Fury of the Demon kg-6 Page 14

  “He’s going to be okay,” I repeated. I wanted to emphasize the hell out of that. I tilted my head and regarded him. “How long have you worked for StarFire and Mr. Farouche?”

  “Um,” he darted his eyes around the room nervously, as if wishing someone else could answer the question for him. “About a year,” he finally said.

  “Cool.” I gave him a friendly smile. This was nothing more than two people chatting, shooting the shit, getting to know each other. Nice and casual. “You like working for them?”

  A variety of emotions crawled across his face, running the gamut from wonder to fear. “It’s, um, good work for me.”

  Nice way to not answer the question. “How’d you get the job with them?”

  His face paled, and he hunched his shoulders. “Recruited,” he said though it was almost more question than statement.

  I took a step into the room, met his eyes. “Forcefully?”

  Panic whispered through his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. “Force?” His voice shook on the word, but then he took a breath and eased as though a nightmare slipped away. Lingering echoes of the Farouche influence, perhaps.

  “How did they get you, Paul?” I asked quietly as I moved farther into the room. “Did they coerce you by threatening someone else, someone close to you? Or did they simply grab you in the night and put you to work?”

  He looked away, shoulders slumping and misery written into his face. “No threats,” he said in a low voice. “They came and took me. No warning.”

  The poor guy looked so beaten down, bewildered and torn. “Paul, we can help you.”

  “I just need Bryce to get better.”

  “He’s still in bad shape, Paul,” I said. “He needs the kind of healing the lord can only do in his own world.” I touched his shoulder. “Would you be willing to go with your friend to that other world for a day or two? He needs it, and it would also give you more time to decide how you want to live the rest of your life.”

  He stared at me in baffled shock, clearly trying to figure out if what he thought he heard me say was really what I’d said. “You mean not on Earth?”

  “Right,” I said. “Not Earth. The other world. You’d be safe there, under the lord’s protection.”

  His eyes went distant. “That’s the only place we’d be safe from Big Mack,” he murmured.

  “You need to be safe, Paul. Give yourself this time.”

  He focused on me again, confusion and hope and fear in his face. “I need Bryce to get better,” he repeated, voice steadying as he seemed to come to a decision. “He’s my best friend. He . . . saved me.” His chin lifted as he straightened. “Okay. Yes.”

  Relieved, I gave him a smile. “It’ll be about two hours,” I told him. “Lord Mzatal is resting right now.” I suddenly realized Paul was still wearing the same blood-soaked clothing. “Damn. You need a change of clothes and a bandage on that arm. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” I left the room without waiting for a response, headed to my bedroom, and grabbed an old PD t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants that I had a feeling would fit him perfectly, as slim as he was. On the way back I detoured to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit, a towel, and a wet washcloth.

  “Here you go,” I said as I returned. I set the shirt and sweats on top of the dresser. “Go ahead and take that mess off,” I gestured to his bloody shirt, “and I’ll get your arm fixed up.”

  Paul looked oddly discomfited. “Um, maybe you can do it if I just pull the sleeve up?” He reached over and began to awkwardly roll up his sleeve above the shallow wound.

  I gave him a withering look and cocked an eyebrow at him as I pointedly raked my gaze over his blood-soaked clothing. “It’s a mess,” I stated firmly. “I’d need to soak it for a week in meat tenderizer to get the blood out. Off with it.”

  He swallowed, but went ahead and pulled the shirt off to reveal a roadmap of scars on his torso. I pygahed to keep my face expressionless. Three surgical scars along his spine, and two abdominal, including one that started at his solar plexus and disappeared into the top of his pants. Another half dozen irregular scars were scattered randomly, perhaps a result of the injury or accident that had necessitated the surgeries.

  “Let’s get the dried blood off first,” I said, very matter-of-factly. I folded the wet washcloth and began to carefully wipe where Thatcher’s blood had soaked through Paul’s shirt and crusted on his torso. He stood silently, not resisting and not looking at me. “Any of these areas still cause pain?” I asked, remaining as clinical as possible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Um, my back does some,” he said, eyes still averted, “but not you touching like this.”

  “Good to know.” I did my best to get the blood cleaned off while I worked around the numerous scars. Some were still red and obviously tender, while a couple had the whiter shade of an older scar, with others falling along a spectrum in between. He’d obviously gone under the knife quite a few times. “Are you done with surgeries or do you still need more?”

  “I’m done,” he said quietly. “They said they can’t do anything else until there’s degeneration later.” He exhaled a sigh.

  I shifted my attention to the shallow wound on his left arm. It had pretty much stopped bleeding, but was a sticky mess. Didn’t look like it needed stitches though. “Lord Mzatal can probably fix up any lingering issues,” I said while I gently dabbed at clotted blood. “He fixed me up when I was a bloody mess.”

  Paul looked at me for the first time since taking his shirt off. “You were a bloody mess?” His brow furrowed, eyes skimming over me as if trying to find the signs of it. “What happened?”

  Mouth tightening, I finished cleaning the wound and set the washcloth down, then stepped back and pulled my shirt up to right below my bra, revealing the sigil scars on my torso. Paul sucked in a gasp as his eyes went to the scars and their horrific beauty. Cold prickled over me as the memory of the unnatural pain shifted, fighting to rise up and wash over me from where I’d shoved it down.

  “These were cut into me by an arcane blade while I hung from my wrists bound behind me,” I said, voice flat and toneless. “Both shoulders dislocated, fractured cheekbone, and cuts like this all over my torso, front, back, and sides, from the nape of my neck to my tailbone.”

  He swallowed audibly. “Oh my god.”

  I let my shirt fall back in place and fixed my gaze on him. “Your turn. What’s your story?”

  Grief and shame clouded his eyes. “I . . . got beaten up. It was pretty bad.”

  Pretty bad? That was the understatement of the millennium judging by his scars. Had Farouche done this to him?

  No, I decided after a bit of thought. He’d worked for Farouche only about a year, and some of those scars were obviously older than that. Yet I didn’t think Paul was much more than twenty, which meant he’d likely been a teenager when it happened. Why the hell would anyone beat the everloving dogsnot out of a kid this mild and gentle?

  “Who did this to you, Paul?” I asked quietly.

  His hand trembled as he touched the scar on his cheekbone. “M-my dad,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry.” I let out a sigh. “It’s even worse when it’s someone you trust, isn’t it?”

  “Yes! Oh god, yes, so much worse!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I never thought anyone else could understand. It’s the worst.” Breath shuddered out of him. “It hurt.”

  I knew he didn’t mean the physical pain. My throat tightened without warning in a weird mix of grief and anger. I opened the first aid kit, busied myself with getting supplies out while I regained my composure. “I was betrayed by my lover,” I said when I could control my voice again. “He made love to me, then strung me up and did all that shit to me.” I began to clean the wound with betadine wipes. “It’s the shattering of trust that hurts the most,” I continued. “You trust this person. They’re supposed to be the one protecting you, helping you, and instead they fuck you up
.” I found gauze in the first aid kit and carefully taped it over the wound. “And it’s like something’s broken, and you think you’ll never be able to trust or love again.” But I did, I thought fiercely. I did trust, and I did love again. Fuck you, Rhyzkahl.

  “Yeah.” His voice broke a bit, and he paused to clear his throat. “I’ve got Bryce. And I know that’s screwy because . . . because I was a prisoner and he was my guard.” He sighed. “But I’ve got Bryce.”

  “I have Mzatal,” I said. “And it’s not screwy. I get it. Bryce really cares about you.” I knew damn well he didn’t take that bullet for Paul simply because it was his job. I closed the first aid kit and handed Paul the clean t-shirt.

  He pulled it on then looked down at the pale form of Thatcher on the bed. “He does.” A smile touched his mouth. “He does really care. It’s like having the best big brother ever sometimes.” He took a deep breath, shifted his attention back to me and abruptly changed the subject. “Mzatal. From another world. Wow.” A weak chuckle slipped out. “Sorry, still trying to get a handle on it. I mean, he used magic—”

  “Arcane,” I put in, then shrugged. “Doesn’t sound quite as weird then.”

  Paul managed a crooked smile. “Right. Arcane. He used it to heal Bryce and,” he paled, gulped, “kill that other guy. Oh my god. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  “He’s got some mojo when he’s worked up,” I said with a nod.

  “Mojo,” he echoed. “That’s putting it mildly, to say the least. I mean, I felt it before, big time, when he was doing his thing to Bryce,” he continued, growing more animated, “but when he stood up, whoa!”

  “It’s definitely palpable,” I agreed, hiding a smile at the awe in Paul’s expression.

  “What was the deal?” he asked. “Who were those guys? He killed one, just like that. Blam!”

  I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. I wonder if Mzatal knows he has a fanboy now? “They work for the lords who did this to me,” I said, sobering a bit as I tapped my chest, indicating the scars. “Those lords want this world, and they don’t intend to be nice about it.”

  His eyes widened. “Want this world?” He took a few seconds to process that. “This is big stuff,” he stated, as if the fact that another world existed was old news now.

  “It sure is,” I said, doing my best to keep a serious expression. If not for Mzatal’s assessment and assurance that Paul wasn’t a threat to us, I might have worried that Paul’s ingenuous nature was simply part of an act to gain my trust. But I trusted Mzatal, and I knew he’d pick up anything suspicious the instant it cropped up.

  “My torture wasn’t simply for torture’s sake,” I told him. “It was part of a ritual meant to make me a thrall, a powerful tool for them to construct a permanent arcane gate between their world and ours, and more.”

  “And you really want me and Bryce to go to the other world?” he asked, an eager edge in his voice now.

  I managed to give him an appropriately serious nod. “It would only be for a day or two,” I said, “but I truly believe it would be for the best.”

  “It would be,” he agreed, then grimaced. “Big Mack will look for us. He’ll find out we were brought here.”

  “You’re pretty valuable to your boss,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be hunting for you.”

  His brow creased. “How do you know that? I mean, that I’m valuable.”

  I lowered myself to sit on the ottoman. “Because your boss went to the trouble of kidnapping you.”

  He hunched in on himself. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

  I eyed him, remembering what Mzatal had said about residuals of the influence and compulsion from Farouche. “You’re still afraid of him.”

  “It’s better now,” he said slowly. “Way better since Lord Mzatal did . . . whatever he did.” He looked down at his hands, clenched and unclenched them as if making sure they worked. “Mr. Farouche never hurt me or anything. He made sure I had all the medical care and surgeries the doctors recommended. Gave me everything I needed. Hell, just about anything I wanted, too. He’s just . . . ” Paul shivered and rubbed his arms, then sighed. “Yeah. He still scares me.”

  “I think Lord Mzatal can help you more with that,” I said, then stood. “I’m going to scrounge up some food. You sit tight here, and I’ll bring something in for you.”

  He gave me a wavering smile. “Thanks, Kara, for everything.”

  I returned the smile. “Sure thing, Paul.” I left the room and headed to the kitchen.

  And hopefully you’ll be able to repay the favor by using your valuable computer skills to help us find Idris.

  Chapter 13

  I found various snack fixings and piled them onto a TV tray that dated back to when I was a kid. The front door opened, and I turned to see Ryan come in. He dropped his keys on the table in the hall and continued my way.

  “Don’t you know how to have a quiet day?” he asked sourly.

  I put on my best baffled look. “Kuh . . . kuh why-et dey? I do not know this phrase.”

  He laughed. “I agree. It is beyond your comprehension.”

  “No kidding!” I lifted my chin toward the hall door. “Thatcher and Ortiz are in there.” I shuffled items around on the tray. “I told Mzatal he should go back to the demon realm soon, and that he should take those two with him. Thatcher needs a lot more healing, and it would be good to keep Ortiz off the radar for a while.” I quickly filled him in on what I’d learned about Paul’s forced recruitment and the injuries and beatings from his dad.

  “He’s been through a lot,” Ryan agreed after I finished. “What’s the deal? How’d someone like that end up at the intersection of you and Katashi’s people?”

  “Dunno, but Thatcher’s name was in one of Tracy Gordon’s notebooks, along with another dozen or so names.”

  Ryan let out a low whistle. “Maybe he knows more about this stuff than Ortiz thinks he does.”

  “That’s possible,” I said. “Paul seems innocent enough in all of this, but Thatcher could be in deep.” I snorted. “Their time with Mzatal should be pretty enlightening.” The demonic lord would pull every shred of information out of both men if it could increase our chances of finding Idris.

  “Maybe I should take a vacation to the demon realm,” Ryan said with a grin.

  I managed to give a light laugh. “I think it would do you a world of good.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure they’d looooooove me there.” The demons called him kiraknikahl, oathbreaker. That meant most demons looked upon him with varying degrees of animosity. Eilahn had settled into tolerant-but-not-too-tolerant, only allowing that much latitude because we were around him all the time. I still didn’t have the full story of what happened and what oath he broke, though it seemed that some of the bans against even speaking of it had been eased.

  “Right now I’m just worried about Mzatal,” I said, totally ducking having to make a reply to his comment.

  “What’s wrong with the fuc—I mean, what’s wrong with him?”

  I shot him a sour look. “He’s away from his power base, he did a major healing, and he laid a huge smackdown on one of Katashi’s men.”

  “He’s fading,” Ryan said with a slow nod, eyes growing distant. “Shows he shouldn’t fucking be here.” His breath quickened, and his face twisted in agitation. “He shouldn’t be here!”

  “Hey, where’s Zack?” I asked a little too loudly as I recognized an agitated Szerain coming through.

  The distraction worked. Ryan blinked and looked over at me. “Uh, he must still be out front. Jill called when we pulled up, and they sort of got into it.” He winced, shook his head. “There’ve been some pretty rocky times in these last few months.”

  Dismay wound through me. “Shit. Why?” I asked. “They were so into each other.”

  He leaned back against the counter and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his pants. “He’s not spending as much tim
e with her as he used to,” he explained. “She’s not happy about it, and he doesn’t want to talk about it.” His face twisted in frustration. “I’m hoping he isn’t done with her. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never been in a serious relationship.” He snorted. “Or even a not-serious relationship. Just some short flings. Nothing stable. Nothing until Jill.”

  “He’s about to be a baby-daddy,” I muttered. “He’d better not be done with her.” Yet I knew the situation was way more complicated than simply his losing interest. Not that I could share those complications with Ryan. You see, your partner is actually a demon, and he’s ditching his baby-mama to deal with your alter ego. “The whole thing sucks,” I said.

  “It’s weird,” Ryan said. “It’s not like he’s afraid of having a kid. I could sort of get it if that was the problem. Doesn’t seem to be, though.”

  “Maybe every now and then you could push him to spend time with her?” I suggested.

  “I’ve tried that,” he replied, mouth twisting sourly. “Sometimes it works. Usually not.”

  “I’ll talk to Jill,” I said with a sigh, then lifted the tray. “Lemme go feed our guest.”

  “Thatcher still unconscious?”

  “Yeah, and I think he’ll stay out until he gets to the demon realm with Mzatal,” I said. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

  Ryan winced. “Zack told me he took a .45 in the back that pretty much blew out his chest.”

  I started to say something about how Thatcher would have been dead in minutes, but I clamped down on it in time. No way would I be able to explain how Mzatal got there so quickly without mentioning Zack’s teleport ability. Best to let him assume Mzatal had gone to the warehouse with me. “The bullet nicked Paul’s arm too,” I said, glossing over the details of how Thatcher survived. “Speaking of, I’d better go feed him!” I hurried off down the hall before Ryan could ask any more questions.

  Paul was still sitting on the stool by the bed. He looked up as I entered, and a faint smile touched his mouth as he saw the loaded tray.