The Trouble with Demons

Vegard saw my grimace. “Brimstone.”

“What?” I tried unsuccessfully to talk and breathe through my mouth at the same time. Must have been a gift I didn’t have.

“The smell,” he clarified.

“So that’s what Hell smells like.”

“I assume so; never been there myself.”

“Not many have,” came a woman’s voice from behind us.

“Afternoon, Sir Vegard.”

The big Guardian turned and smiled. “Professor Niabi, good to see you.”

“Considering how today’s gone so far, it’s good to be seen.”

The woman was human, about my height, with nut brown skin, and black hair pulled back into a serviceable braid.

“So Hell’s not a top-ten vacation spot?” I quipped.

Her teeth flashed in a good-humored grin. “The beaches suck.” She put out her hand. “Sora Niabi, professor of demonology.”

I hesitated only a moment before taking it. Her hand was warm and callused. Sora Niabi had done more work than just turning pages. I might have to adjust my opinion about academic types.

“I’m Raine Benares, seeker and . . .” I looked up at Vegard.

“What else are people calling me now?”

The big Guardian chuckled and shook his head. “A lot of things, ma’am. Some you’ve heard, most you haven’t, but I’m sure you could guess.”

“No titles necessary,” Sora Niabi said with a grin. “I know who you are.”

She knew, and she wasn’t afraid of me. She also didn’t want my power or want me locked up. I could sense it, and my instincts about people had never been wrong. Well, at least not yet.

“After this morning, Professor Niabi’s also the new department chair,” Vegard informed me.

Sora Niabi blew her breath out in disgust. “Looks that way. Though if Laurian Berel hadn’t been such an idiot, I wouldn’t be.” Her robes were a riot of bright colors. They were also slashed up the side, exposing practical trousers underneath, and good, sturdy boots.

She noticed me noticing. “When you study demons for a living, Miss Benares, it’s healthy to be able to haul ass when you have to.”

That did it; I liked her.

“Call me Raine.”

“Only if you’ll drop the ‘professor’ and call me Sora.”

“Done.”

Mychael joined us. “Professor Niabi, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Not a problem, Paladin Eiliesor. The coroner needed me to officially identify Professor Berel, so I had to be here anyway.”

“He was a talented mage.”

“Laurian was a better fool, and you know it as well as I do. You should have been a diplomat, Paladin. You actually managed to say that with a straight face. I was hardly surprised to hear he’d gotten himself killed; I’ve been expecting that news for years. In our line of work, talent can get you into trouble, but arrogance will get you killed and eaten—and not always in that order.”

I nodded toward the warded cell. “Those four and their buddies were after something and they thought Professor Berel had it. He said he didn’t. Any idea what it was?”

“Not a clue. Laurian kept a lot of bizarre artifacts around.

We all do. Certain objects have power against demons. Everybody in the department has their own collection and their own favorites. It’s safer to have your own when you need it. Chances are if you need it, you don’t have the time to go borrowing.”

Mychael lowered his voice. “He was killed by a Volghul.”

Sora’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow. “Nothing he had would have saved him from that. Apparently when the demons didn’t get what they wanted from Laurian, they went to his town house. The place has been demolished from the inside out, like somebody got really frustrated.”

“Frustrated demonic searchers?” I asked.

“The brimstone smell gave it away.” Sora squinted through the thickly warded cell. “Is that a wine bottle?”

“The Volghul is in there,” Mychael told her.

Sora whistled. “In a wine bottle? Damn. Who stuffed it in there?”

I half raised my hand. “That would be me.”

“You?”

“Me. With a little help.”

“That’s some help.”

I tried not to wince. “Yes, it was.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

Mychael nodded toward the demons’ cell. “Do you have everything we need to question those?”

Sora gave the knapsack slung over one shoulder a shake. I heard something metal clank heavily inside. “Never leave home without it.”

“And traps for transporting them out of here?”

“Got my two best grad students checking out a pair from the lab. They’ll be here any time now.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

The demon’s enraged screams had subsided to low growls.

Sora Niabi had wrangled it out of that cell and into a binding circle in an interrogation room. There was a ring of silver about three feet wide permanently embedded in the stone floor. Sora had added a thick silver chain on top of that. Both inside and outside the circle, she’d carefully placed objects I couldn’t identify, and judging from how the demon had reacted when Sora forced him inside, he knew perfectly well what they were, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near them. The professor knew her business. Good. Any interrogation room I’d ever seen was just a table, two chairs, no windows, and a barred iron door, with the obligatory big, burly, and heavily armed guard standing right outside.

Of course they did things differently on Mid.

There were still big and burly types outside the door, but that was where the similarities ended. Sure, these boys could stop an escapee with a fist or steel; they could also spit a spell that’d tack a miscreant to the nearest wall like a bug. The door and all four walls were kept warded. Nothing was leaving that room unless it was let go. Mychael and Sora had no intention of releasing that demon. Her grad students were stationed on either side of the door—on the inside. I didn’t know if Sora had asked them to stand by the door in case they needed to make a quick getaway, or if they were there to make sure the demon didn’t do the same. They honestly didn’t look old enough to fight acne, let alone a demon, but I guess when it came to battling demonic forces, brawn didn’t matter. Brains did—that and nerves of steel. From what I’d seen so far, Sora Niabi had both in spades. Before they’d gone in and locked the door behind them, those two kids had looked like they were still in training.

Phaelan and I waited outside the door, about ten feet away and slightly off to one side, should that door suddenly decide to blow off its hinges. I’d seen it happen before. Better safe than squashed.

Phaelan leaned close to my ear. “Why are we still here?”

He was talking through clenched teeth again, a sure sign my cousin wasn’t happy in his present surroundings. I guess I really couldn’t blame him; a couple of the watchers were glancing at Phaelan’s wanted poster and then back at Phaelan. Sure, Mychael had given my cousin immunity from prosecution for any past legal indiscretions while on the Isle of Mid, but Mychael was questioning a demon right now. He wasn’t here. It was just me and Phaelan and a roomful of increasingly alert watchers.

Phaelan cleared his throat impatiently. I hadn’t answered his question yet.

“I could see those demons, but no one else could,” I told him, keeping my voice to a bare whisper. “A man is dead, and his killer said that he was honored by my presence and wanted me to go home with him. I want to know why.”

“Hmmm, let’s see . . . That makes you a possible demon ally and accessory to murder. So you thought you’d stand in the middle of city watch headquarters.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. “It doesn’t sound too bright, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Well, Sedge may not be through questioning us yet.”

“Did he say he wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Then he’s probably finished. I’ve talked to him. You’ve talked to him. The kids have talked to him. Vegard’s talked to him. I’d call that finished.”

“And if he’s not?”

“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness from a ship, than permission from a jail cell.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic.

The front doors opened and in strode the man Mychael had been expecting.

Oh crap in a bucket. I did not need this.

Carnades Silvanus wasn’t the type to drop by watcher headquarters for a friendly visit. He had a reason for being here, and that reason was me. And judging from the people who’d come in with him and the fanciness of their robes, it looked like he’d brought along some high-powered—or at least self-important—friends. Fancy robes just meant a mage had money. Fashion had nothing to do with firepower.

Either way, I wasn’t flattered that they’d all come to see me.

Carnades Silvanus saw himself as the champion of the elven people. I saw him as an uptight, self-righteous, narrow-minded jerk. Unfortunately, he also had the influence to convince a lot of powerful and dangerous people to see things his way.

Even before I’d set foot on the island, word had already arrived and spread about my link with the Saghred. Mages liked good gossip the same as everyone else. Some of those mages thought I had too much power. They couldn’t control me. I was a risk. I had to be stopped. Some favored a permanent solution. The squeamish ones wanted something less drastic. I didn’t think the five men and women behind Carnades were the ones with the weak stomachs.

No doubt Carnades considered himself the pinnacle of elven good breeding. The hair that flowed over his shoulders was the color of winter frost, eyes the pale blue of arctic ice, an alabaster complexion, a cold, sharp beauty. Pure-blooded high elf. His black and silver robes were understated and elegant, and clearly cost a small fortune. His only visible weapon was a curved and ornate silver dagger tucked into a silk sash. I knew better. Carnades Silvanus was a weapon. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">