Touch of the Demon

He stood smoothly, and with an efficient sweep of his arm erased all the patterns and released my bindings. I pulled my limbs in and struggled to sit up, clutching at my chest even though the pain was long gone. I hadn’t known that Rhyzkahl had a way to rescue me, but somehow, taking that hope away, even without my previous knowledge of it, cut even more cruelly. I wasn’t at all accustomed to feeling helpless and vulnerable, and I deeply despised it.

The lord stepped away from me, looked to Gestamar. “Take her.”

To my shock the demon simply scooped me up in his arms. I clung to him, weirdly relieved since I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk. Beyond all the other stresses of this gloriously shitty day, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and my body was intent on reminding me of that fact. I leaned my head on Gestamar’s chest and allowed myself to wallow in misery for awhile, as he passed out of the chamber and down several corridors. He carried me through a musty common area with tables and sofa-like seating and into a small sparse room, maybe eight foot square, furnished with only a narrow bed and a side table with a mug on it. A single tiny window high on the far wall framed a patch of dusk-blue sky and a single winking star. Unlike the room just outside, this one was completely dust-free and the blanket was clean and freshly laid on the bed. A door to the right appeared to lead to a bathroom type of place.

The demon set me down, far more gently than I expected, and guided me to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What happens now?” I asked, too exhausted to hide the quaver in my voice.

He plucked the mug from the table and pressed it into my hands. “You drink,” he rumbled.

I didn’t know squat about antiques, but I was pretty sure the mug was the real thing. Silver, lined with gold, a vertical ribbed pattern around it and leaves etched on its gracefully curved handle. It sure looked like something from Earth. The murky brown contents weren’t nearly as appealing. I lifted the mug dubiously and took a careful sip. It reminded me of liquefied unsalted stew, but with a hint of bitterness that I couldn’t identify. My starving body probably wouldn’t have cared what it tasted like, but I had to appreciate that it didn’t completely suck. I finished the contents, then placed the mug back on the table, hand shaking only slightly. “And now?”

“You sleep,” the demon replied.

“And then what?” I asked, meeting his eyes. “What’s going to happen to me? Why am I here?”

He snorted. “Because Mzatal wants you here.”

I scowled at the non-answer, turned away from him, and curled up on the bed.

“You are not dead,” he said. “Consider that, Kara Gillian.” I heard him exit and close the door.

And I did. Every moment I continued to draw breath was a moment more to figure out how to get myself out of this shit. I listened carefully but heard no sound of a bolt or lock. I didn’t figure it could be that easy, but I had to try. I sat up, padded over to the door and laid my hands flat against it. A faint buzzing sensation cued me that it was likely warded, meaning arcanely locked. I pushed the handle down slowly so as not to make noise, then gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. Damn.

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. 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">