Touch of the Demon kg-5 Read online

  I poked around the room for anything of interest or of use, but found nothing pointy, sharp, or weaponizable. I looked up at the high window with its patch of darkening sky and a few stars. I shoved the bed under it, and lifted the table onto the bed, bracing it against the wall. Yep, that did it. I climbed up my makeshift scaffold and got to nose level with the sill, high enough to at least check it out.

  I pressed my hand against the glass and found only the barest whisper of arcane. Since it had a latch begging to be tried, I lifted it and pulled. Holy shit! The window swung inward with a creak of hinges and a shower of dust. My heart pounded with the possibilities. Judging by what I could see from my position of barely peering over the sill—which was pretty much sky—I figured I was on at least the second story.

  Okay, Jill, I’m going to use those muscles you’ve been trying to get me to build. Exercise and I didn’t get along, but somehow Jill—the crime scene technician who’d become my best friend—could get me going. Sometimes. I hauled myself up in a klutzy thrash and wiggle and managed to get a grip on the outside lip with my arms supported on the wide sill, and the rest of me dangling inside. Great. Now what?

  I got an answer I didn’t want. The stars winked out to pitch black, and a pair of blood red eyes hovered a couple of feet in front of me. The faint scent of sulphur drifted in, and I had no doubt I was face to face with a zhurn, a tenth-level demon that was like shadow and night. Crapsticks.

  “Greetings, honored one,” I said, voice strained as I struggled to maintain the awkward hold. “Nice night.” Obviously escape this way wasn’t happening tonight.

  The zhurn’s voice crackled like flames on wet kindling. “No egress this way, summoner.”

  “Yeah,” I said, easing back down to the tabletop. “I kinda get that.”

  “Sleep,” it said, reaching with a shadowy extension to pull the window closed. The red eyes disappeared, but the stars didn’t come back. Damn zhurn had closed its eyes and camped over my window.

  I climbed down and dragged the table off the bed. Weariness crashed in. It had been a long and particularly shitty day. Sleep wasn’t a bad idea. I needed rest to be sharp tomorrow and ready for whatever Lord Asstard had to throw at me. I curled up under the blanket and drifted off immediately, thoughts of Tessa, Jill, Zack…and Ryan, swirling.

  “I’m coming back, guys, don’t worry,” I murmured. Even with all the uncertainty and misery, I knew I’d have no trouble getting to sleep. Thankfully, I was right.

  Chapter 3

  I had no idea how long I slept. The small window high in the wall let sunlight in along with a glimpse of rich blue sky but no other clue as to time of day. It had been twilight when I went to sleep, so apparently it was a full night plus some, give or take a million years. I sat up, absently rubbing my chest, then scowled as I realized I was doing so. The memory of the pain still haunted me.

  The adjoining room was, indeed, a bathroom type place, and though the facilities weren’t the usual flush-toilet sort, it wasn’t difficult to figure out how it worked. A low table held a basin, a cloth, and a jug of water, though nothing as pedestrian as a toothbrush. Still, I washed my face and used a corner of the cloth to scrub the worst of the fuzz from my teeth. I even stripped and washed the parts of me that were stinky. Putting the damn black shift back on wasn’t high on my list of favorite things to do, though. What, prisoners of demonic lords weren’t allowed underwear?

  As I finished and came back out to the bedchamber, the door opened. Gestamar stepped in, carrying two mugs.

  “Drink this quickly,” he said, holding one out for me. “You have been summoned by Mzatal.”

  “Can I have some different clothes?” I asked. “A hairbrush? Anything?”

  His lip curled, exposing sharp fangs that gleamed white. Apparently he had a toothbrush, or the demon equivalent. “No need for different garb,” he told me. “What you have is sufficient for now. And if you do not drink, you will go hungry. Your choice.”

  Scowling, I took the mug and downed the contents. It wasn’t bad, but I definitely wanted solid food sometime soon. This was enough to keep me alive, and that was about it. Then again, my stomach was so queasy from nerves, solid food probably wouldn’t stay down for long.

  I set the mug aside, and he passed the second one to me, simply saying chak, which I assumed to be the name of the beverage. The rich brown liquid steamed with a pleasantly fragrant nutty, earthy scent. I took a sip, then another. It wasn’t coffee, but it was hot and pretty damn tasty.

  Gestamar pointed toward the door. I took that as my cue to move and, after one last gulp, reluctantly relinquished the mug and its precious contents. Sighing, I dug my fingers through my snarled hair as I exited.

  Gestamar directed me to an antechamber, and inside was a set of double doors.

  Two life-sized statues of demon-marble flanked the doors. On the left, a woman of mature but indeterminate years stood in tall grace. Though her face was serious, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. A single shoulder strap secured her masterfully carved close-fitting dress, revealing more than it covered. On the right, a young man in a RenFaire outfit stood with his arms folded casually across his chest and a mischievous smile lighting his face.

  I peered at them, so exquisitely sculpted I almost swore they were breathing. “Who are they?” I glanced over at the reyza, then back to the statues.

  “Nefhotep and Giovanni Racchelli,” he said. “Favorites of Szerain. Giovanni died young.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot and settled into a crouch. “Nefhotep lived here for over two hundred years.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Humans?”

  “Yes.” He adjusted his wings. “From the time long ago when the ways were open,” he said, lifting a claw toward the young man then toward the woman. “And fully open, very long ago.”

  The weird déjà vu feeling crept through me again as I looked at the statue of Giovanni. I knew him, it tried to tell me. Even now I could picture his quick smile and infectious laugh, and for just the briefest instant it was as if the statue moved to turn his teasing grin upon me. My breath caught, my stomach fluttered, my heart pounded, and damn it all, my face heated in—a blush? What the hell?

  I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel the illusion and turned away. The sensations lingered for another few heartbeats before fading.

  “Szerain has always had the gift of capturing the very essence of his subjects,” the reyza said, peering at the statues.

  “He carved these?” I asked in surprise. Gestamar nodded. Had I ever seen Ryan show any sort of artistic ability? I couldn’t think of a single instance, which sent a weird and sad pang through me.

  My musing came to an abrupt end as Mzatal strode in, passing me without a glance. He still wore the Armani suit and white shirt, but had changed his tie to one of blood red, and the pattern of his braid seemed different. The double doors swung open before he even reached them, and he entered the room beyond without the slightest hitch in his stride.

  Gestamar stood and gestured for me to go in. I did so, jaw tight, hating how grubby and foolish I felt in the damn shift.

  With its vaulted ceiling and two huge unbroken windows on the far wall, the room felt spacious despite its small area—not much larger than my living room back home. I couldn’t tell what purpose the room had, though, since it was empty of furnishings. The only object remaining was what appeared to be a statue adjacent one of the windows, covered in a white cloth.

  Mzatal stood facing the other window, hands behind his back. I stopped a few feet from him.

  “So. Great,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, and doing my damnedest to marshal something resembling a strong attitude. “You have me. You’ve made sure that Rhyzkahl can’t get me back. I have a comfy cell, and crap food, and no toothbrush. Now what?”

  Mzatal slowly turned to face me. His eyes met mine, and I suddenly realized that the absence of a toothbrush really wasn’t so bad after all, considering. My mouth went dry as he approa
ched, and I had to steel myself against a shudder as he moved around and behind me. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and then a heartbeat later he lifted the collar from my neck. The arcane clarified and brightened. The room was well-shielded, though I didn’t really need to look at the patterns and sigils to know that. There was no way he’d take the collar off me in a room that wasn’t, and run the risk that Rhyzkahl could track me.

  He remained behind me, unnervingly silent, though I could feel him there, his aura alone near overwhelming. Potency like a wave of nightmare engulfed me as he leaned in closer. “What now, you ask?” he breathed in a quietly menacing voice that sent terror streaking through me. “I decide if you live or die.” He paused. “I decide how you live, or how you die.”

  My breath caught in a low sob. I hated him more than anyone or anything at that moment. “Okay, I get it,” I managed, nursing what dull anger I could. “You hold full control. You have me scared shitless. You win. Happy now? Whatever this is all about, whether it’s me living or dying, fucking do it already.”

  He continued the circle and stopped in front of me, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Before I could get pissed at his amusement at my expense, he lifted his hand and looped a softly glowing strand of potency around my throat, then turned, drawing me behind him like a dog on a leash as he approached the covered statue. I seethed, but was nevertheless grateful for the over-the-top display of dominance. I could do anger a lot better than terror.

  He stopped a few feet from the statue and moved behind me once again, but this time he gripped my head between his hands, as if to make absolutely certain I couldn’t look away.

  “Elinor.” He spoke the word like an invocation piercing my essence as he stripped the cloth from the statue without touching it. And there she was. Elinor. Youthful. Slight of build with a sweet face that radiated innocence. Sudden swirling dizziness put a stop to my observation.

  I jerked, and only the lord’s grip on my head kept me from staggering as memories flooded in, memories that I absolutely knew weren’t my own. Yet as they poured over me and through me, they drove my own existence and identity before them. The room melted and reformed.

  “Come, dear one,” Lord Rhyzkahl says, holding his hand out to me, broad expanse of cloudless sky beyond him framed by columns. My stomach flutters, and I feel the blush rise in my cheeks. I smile and take his hand. Anything for his gaze, his touch. Will he kiss me? Breathless.

  The memory shifted dizzyingly.

  I wring my hands, banished for the moment to the antechamber. Fear. Uncertainty. I hate it when they argue. I listen to the words though do not understand more than that Lord Rhyzkahl dominates this one and Lord Szerain counters. Do not faint. Do not faint. Do not faint.

  Shift.

  The ritual seethes around me, tearing at me. Pain blossoms in my chest. Please. Pleeeease. I don’t understand. I don’t understand!

  Shift.

  Giovanni places the small cakes one at a time before me, counting. His eyes twinkle, and I cannot concentrate on the numbers. He will surely think me a silly little thing if I cannot even learn to count to ten in Italian. Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro. He touches the back of my hand and smiles. I am undone!

  Shift.

  Cakes. Cakes. A statue. Birthday cake. Tessa grinning.

  Pancakes. Lots of pancakes at Lake o’ Butter. Jill eating pancakes across the table. Dear One. Cinque. Sei. Sette. Jill. Jill. Otto. Nove. Dieci. Ryan laughing next to me, and Zack rolling his eyes.

  Through the maelstrom of memories I became distantly aware of my own whimpering and an increasing grip on my head. My breath hissed through my teeth, and I struggled to focus on the statue as just that—a statue. These weren’t my memories. The dreams, the déjà vu, all this…This wasn’t from me. I was not Elinor.

  My hands clenched and unclenched as I called up and galvanized my own memories: My mother and father, growing up with Tessa, learning to summon, graduating from the police academy, my first pursuit on foot, the first time I had sex, crawfish and beer, becoming a detective, the pride of putting bad guys in jail, the first time I got punched by a suspect and how I put him in handcuffs, becoming friends with Jill, giggling over reality TV, Christmases and birthdays, Ryan’s quick smile and Zack’s laugh, Eilahn and Fuzzykins…

  My breath slowed as the chaos of intruder memories subsided. I felt the lord behind me, hands still on my head, and I knew in that instant that not only was he deeply reading my thoughts, but also that he was poised to snap my neck depending on his assessment of me.

  “Please don’t kill me,” I said, voice calm and quiet.

  His grip eased ever so slightly, though he didn’t release me. “Why?”

  I didn’t hesitate with my reply. “Because I matter.”

  He held the grip for another three heartbeats, then withdrew his hands and dissipated the strand of potency from around my throat. He replaced the collar, then stepped fully away from me and returned to his former position by the window, looking out, hands behind his back. I closed my eyes for a few seconds as I processed the undeniable fact that I’d been a hair’s breadth from death. I knew without a doubt that if I’d been unable to fight my way out of that storm of memories I’d be a twitching corpse on the floor at this moment.

  But why?

  I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I fully intended to take a bit of ease in this tiny victory. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Who was she? This Elinor chick.”

  He surprised me by actually answering the question. “A summoner of adequate aptitude from your seventeenth century, trained by me for a short time, then fostered by Szerain and Rhyzkahl.”

  “If she was merely adequate,” I asked, frowning, “then how the hell did she damn near destroy this world?”

  “That, Kara Gillian, remains clouded.” He turned back to me, shaking his head. “Something of her nature, of her essence, escalated the ritual beyond recovery, and Szerain remains mute.” His eyes narrowed with a touch of what looked like disapproval. “I know it was not within her skills as a summoner to call such power.”

  I put what few pieces I had together. “I’m not this Elinor, so what’s the deal?” I knew I wasn’t some sort of reincarnation of her, but I also assumed she and I had a connection. I just didn’t know what it was.

  “No, upon assessment it is clear that you are not a direct essence transfer,” he said, echoing my own thoughts. “Your innate energy signature mirrors hers, but is fully yours.” He narrowed his eyes. “But there is another piece of your essence, one that has the feel of an afterthought. This is the part that holds and generates the memories of Elinor and houses a fragment of who she is. Its encapsulation is unconventional, yet it is somehow integral to you.”

  I blinked and tried to make sense of that but gave up. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  He leaned toward me a smidge, not seeming at all annoyed by my cluelessness. “An energy signature is much like a fingerprint, though not utterly unique. Close matches are possible. Though, without extraordinary means, the chances of locating a specific signature are infinitesimal given the sheer number of possibilities. I can only speculate at this point. It is as though this fragment of Elinor attached to you, became a part of you, because of the energy signature match. Why or how,” he said with a shake of his head, “I do not yet know.”

  The fact that he took the time to explain it obviously meant something. Too bad I had no idea what.

  “Like donating a kidney,” I said, folding my arms over my chest.

  Mzatal lifted an eyebrow, head tilting a bit. “Perhaps, though with a deeper influence.”

  Pieces fell into place. “Ah, and that’s why I’m so popular—because I have Elinor’s magic kidney.”

  Mzatal’s face shifted from the hint of curiosity to the impassive mask. This dude had zero sense of humor. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Some seek through speculation, and some through smatterings of knowledge.” His eyes were hard upon me. “You are a dangerous unk
nown, Kara Gillian.”

  I lifted my chin, mouth tight. “And dangerous things are either used, destroyed, or—” I thought of my bare feet and black shift and obvious prisoner status. “—contained.”

  “Unless the unknown becomes known,” he said. “Then the possibilities shift.”

  And how the hell was I supposed to make the unknown known in a way that would keep me alive and whole? I sighed inwardly. Right now I wanted coffee and real food, in that order. Might as well wish for a personal visit from Santa Claus while you’re at it, I chided myself.

  He approached me, intense and coiled and calm as he reached and gripped my chin in his hand. His eyes were like ancient pale grey flint shot with silver. A palpable potency radiated from him that sent goosebumps skimming over me. “What is your heart’s desire?” he asked, as if my life depended on my answer.

  And it most likely did. I returned his gaze as steadily as I could. “To reach my full potential.”

  He held my chin for several long heartbeats before releasing it, only to seize my left wrist and pull my arm forward. I clenched my teeth as he dropped his eyes to Rhyzkahl’s mark and laid a hand over it. He went utterly still for a moment, then drew a deep breath and brought his gaze up to mine.

  When the lord spoke it was as if he forced the words out through gritted teeth, though his face betrayed no tension. “This mark does nothing to further that desire. Nor does it serve my purposes for you to bear it.” Mzatal released my wrist and clasped his hands behind his back. “I will remove Rhyzkahl’s stigma and determine what possibilities unfold,” he said with icy conviction.

  I shook my head in denial at the thought of having the mark removed, an unnamed dread stilling my breath. “Use, destroy, or contain?”