Touch of the Demon

A vine by my hand twitched as a low purring vibration filled the forest. The trees around me gave another shudder, and a heartbeat later vines shifted and slid against me. Okay. Freaky. A deep groaning of movement permeated the grove as leaves and twigs broken by my passage fell from above. A vine as thick as my wrist snaked around my torso just above where the branch had skewered me.

I heard running footsteps in the clearing. Turning my head, I saw Mzatal come to a stop near the treeline, eyes on me, assessing. More vines wrapped around me. I struggled out of panicked instinct, stopping as agony knifed through my side and leg. My eyes met Mzatal’s. I tried to call for help, but I could barely get enough breath to breathe, much less speak or shout.

Mzatal’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, then stopped as if he’d run into a wall. I watched as he raised a hand, testing an unseen barrier. What the hell? I wondered in barely controlled panic. Had I managed to fall into some sort of carnivorous plant? Yeah, bleed on the man-eating plant. Always a good plan.

Yet even as I fretted about being eaten, a soft ease stole through me, and my panic faded. I felt oddly relaxed…and safe. It occurred to me that if it really was a man-eating plant, it might have released chemicals or pheromones or something to make its prey nice and docile, but I decided it was more comforting to think it was simply a Nice Plant.

Vines continued to shift and move around me. The white trunks and limbs shimmered with heat-wave ripples, though the grove felt cooler than before. The green and violet of the leaves awoke with a luminescent glitter of emerald and amethyst. Mzatal stepped back as the barrier before him took on a barely visible pulsing glow. A wind whispered through the leaves, or maybe the leaves just whispered to me. Mesmerized, I stared up at the shifting beauty.

A leafy tendril touched my face, and the last vestiges of my panic ebbed away. It wasn’t going to let me fall. Everything shuddered again and the vines that had wrapped around me began to lift me off the impaling branch. I stared at the leaves above, mind screaming distantly to expect fresh agony, but it was wrong. Only a little tingle. My new Plant Friend wouldn’t hurt me. Smiling, I watched the pretty dancing lights.

I relaxed into the cradling hold. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mzatal pacing along the perimeter, eyes never leaving me. He placed a hand on the barrier and tried to push through, then staggered back a step as it repelled him. His eyes snapped to me as he stood, hands clenched at his sides. Way too tense. He needed a Plant Friend.

Whisper whisper whisper. Sparkly. Everything sparkly.

“Kara, can you hear me?”

Whisper whisper whisper.

Shimmery. Sparkly. Shimmery.

Whisper whisper whisper.

“Kara!”

“No need. To. Shout,” I managed, my voice sounding loud and unnatural to me. Vines unwound, pulling away. The pain returned, and I shuddered and whimpered low. Awareness seeped in: not in the tree anymore, on the ground. “How’d I get here?”

Mzatal crouched at my side, carefully looking me over without touching me. “The grove moved you. It was unprecedented, Kara Gillian,” he murmured, gaze flicking from the wound in my side to the mangled mess of my leg. Sudden fear gripped me. Would he even bother trying to heal me?

He looked past me at the retreating vines, then laid a hand in the center of my chest. His jaw clenched and he shook his head, then stripped the collar from me, passed it to Gestamar, and set his hand on my chest again.

“You are badly injured,” he said, in what I thought was a keen grasp of the fucking obvious. He looked up and around, expression contemplative. “The grove has stopped the bleeding.” Shaking his head, he returned his attention to me. “We will stabilize your leg here, then move you.” He pointed to a spot in the center of his forehead. “Focus here,” he said, then sketched a quick sigil in the air between us.

I did my best to focus where he indicated, though my vision kept wanting to fuzz in and out. The sigil rotated in a subtly mesmerizing pattern, and gradually it became oddly simple to focus on that and little else. Mzatal set a hand on my thigh, and I felt Gestamar pulling and twisting my leg into a more acceptable configuration, but the agony seemed to be behind a glass wall. Mzatal traced tethers of potency around my leg, then caught the sigil and placed it on my chest. A soothing warmth emanated from it, like a magic pain patch.

“Gestamar will move you now,” he told me, speaking in a calm, imperturbable voice. I barely managed a nod, feeling strangely distant from my body.

The reyza lifted me with amazing gentleness. Around me the grove shimmered, and I smiled, feeling its touch like a caress.

I must have drifted off for a few minutes, because the next thing I knew, Gestamar was gently setting me on my bed. Mzatal entered, removing his suit jacket and draping it over the chair before rolling up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt. He moved to my side and ran his hands lightly over my torso.

“How…bad?” I asked, the effort of those two words exhausting.

Before Mzatal could respond, Idris entered. He stopped and gave a gasp of shock—inadvertently answering my question of how bad—then flinched at the reproving look from Mzatal. I wanted to laugh, but I knew it would hurt too much.

Mzatal returned his attention to me. “Your right leg is broken. You were impaled through and through on your left side and there is damage within. If you are not healed, you will die.”

“Oh…okay.” Well, he didn’t pull any punches. But at least, at this point, I was pretty sure he was going to do what he could to keep me from dying.

Idris audibly gulped and proceeded to edge around the room and out of Mzatal’s direct line of sight.

A faas hopped in, and Mzatal took the mug that was offered. In a smooth motion, the lord slid his arm under my shoulders and lifted me to a partial sitting position, supporting me fully. Pain flared behind the shielding wall of the sigil.

“Drink, Kara,” he said as he held the mug to my lips.

I suddenly realized how thirsty I was and did my best to drink. It tasted pleasantly sweet and refreshing and felt as if it permeated beyond the physical. It took some doing, but I drained the mug. “What was that?” I managed to whisper.

Mzatal set the mug aside and eased me down to the pillow again. “Tunjen juice. Replenishing both for the physical and the arcane.”

The demon realm version of a super sports drink, I thought with detached amusement.

I watched Mzatal as much as I was able, though between the pain and the sigils he was using to dampen it, I tended to drift in and out. He looked seriously fucking intense as he readied himself to work on me.

“What do you know of the groves?” he asked, placing a hand next to the wound in my side.

I frowned. He was going to get blood on a really nice shirt. And how the hell did he get tailored for a suit that nice in the demon realm? And what sort of cuff links did a demonic lord wear? And had he washed his hands?

“Kara,” Mzatal said with an undercurrent of command in his voice, reminding me of the tone cops used when trying to get and keep attention.

Oh, right. He’d asked me a question. “Trees. Lords travel…” Muzzily, I realized he wanted me to stay awake and interacting. Likely for my own good or something. Damn it.

Mzatal said a few words in demon to Gestamar. The reyza grunted and bounded out.

He looked back down at me. “You have never been in a grove before.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t waste energy trying to answer it. He lifted my shirt above the site of the impalement. “Idris, lay support.”

The young man jumped at the sound of his name. “Y-yes, my lord,” he said, flicking a worried glance my way before beginning to sketch a complex pattern using nothing but shimmering threads of potency. I watched, fascinated, in a dreamy sort of way. This was the first chance I’d had to really see things happening without the collar on.

Idris finished and ignited the pattern. Instantly, I saw it dim as Mzatal drew upon it. A low warmth spread through my side. Now I understood Idris’s worried look. If the demonic lord needed a support pattern for additional potency, that meant I was well and truly fucked up. Then again, it wasn’t news to me at this point.

I pulled my unsteady attention back to Mzatal. His hair was braided in a complex weave that looked like it needed at least seven or eight strands. Did he do that himself? Or did he have a demon valet do it for him? And where did he get the tie that was currently tucked partially in his shirt to keep it clear of his work? And for that matter, where was I going to get new clothes? Especially bras. I knew the one I had on was pretty well soaked in blood.

“The zrila Anak fashioned the tie, and the faas Jekki braids my hair,” Mzatal said as he slid a hand beneath me to reach the entry wound. Pain flared at the movement, and I hissed a breath. “When we return to my realm on the morrow,” he continued, “the zrila circle will create what garb you require. They are quite skilled.”

I managed a slight scowl. “You’re reading…me.”

Mzatal looked from the wound to my face. “Yes, of course.”

“Rude.” I swallowed, breathing shallowly. “Stop.”

“That I cannot do,” he replied. “It is as impossible as stopping the taste of wine upon my tongue, or the feel of your skin beneath my hands.” In the next instant heat flooded the wound, and I gasped, hands tightening in the sheet. Gradually, it subsided into a warm pulse, spreading in gentle flows from the wound to the rest of my body. I exhaled in relief as the pain faded, noticing that it was already far easier to breathe.

“The sigils fascinate you,” Mzatal said almost conversationally, “but it is clear you do not know many of them. What training have you had?”

“My aunt,” I replied. It was a lot easier to talk and breathe now, but I was as tired as if I’d run a marathon uphill. Not that I had any intention of ever finding out how tiring a marathon was. “She taught me protocols…rituals. I summon demons…to learn…ask questions.” I caught myself drifting and dragged my focus back to him. I didn’t want to sleep. Too much chance I might never wake up. “I’m…getting better?” 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">