Lisa Shearin - The Trouble With Demons

The elf’s chin came up. “You’re going to kill me.” He was trying for brave, the tremble in his voice said otherwise.

“No, we’re going back to the citadel, and we are going talk. I will ask questions and you will answer every one of them-truthfully and completely.”

The Guardians took Devent away, and Piaras cleared his throat.

“Thank you, sir.” Piaras’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

“We do,” I told him. “And we’re going to fix it so that it never happens again.”

“Sir!” An out-of-breath Guardian ran up to Mychael. The armor on his sword arm had been ripped away.

A buka’s roar told us exactly what had done the ripping.

I swore. The Guardians and watchers couldn’t kill those bukas, because even though they were solid, they weren’t real. Piaras’s voice had made them; Piaras’s voice was the only thing that could unmake them. As if the kid hadn’t endured enough tonight.

“You have to dispel them,” Mychael told Piaras.

Another roar joined the first as a watcher and a Guardian tried a divide-and-contain tactic. It didn’t work.

“I tried, sir,” Piaras said. “When the second one materialized, I-”

“They’re still here,” Phaelan pointed out in a singsong voice, eyes wide and disbelieving, blades in both hands.

“I know that!” Piaras snapped in desperation.

Mychael was the calm in the middle of furry chaos. “What did you use?”

Piaras told him. I didn’t know what the hell he’d just said, but Mychael did.

“That’s not strong enough,” Mychael said. Then he told him what to use; I didn’t recognize those as words, either. “And be firm with them,” he ordered.

“Got it. I think.”

“Don’t think, do !” Mychael barked like a drill sergeant to a new recruit. “You’re banishing them! They’re not going unless you force them. Do it! Now! ”

Piaras did. He didn’t think; he just reacted to that order. Mychael’s voice gave him no choice. It wasn’t Mychael’s spellsinger voice. It wasn’t magic. It was the voice of a commander of men, a leader on the battlefield, a voice you obeyed without question or faced consequences that might be worse than getting squashed by a buka.

Piaras squared his shoulders, braced his feet, and let the bukas have the full force of his voice. It rang like a bright battle horn in the night, the volume magnified by the marble buildings. It was majestic and compelling, commanding the bukas, forcing them to do his will.

I’m glad the kid wasn’t aiming at me.

The bukas were becoming less substantial. One of them had a watcher by the leg and was dragging him closer; he lost his grip, his hand becoming translucent in the lamplight. The bukas were going, but they weren’t going quietly. One roar shattered a row of windows on a pristine government building before becoming a mere echo, a distant cry. Then the monsters simply winked out of existence. Piaras’s ragged breathing said there was nothing simple about it. He was bent over, hands on his knees, looking a little green around the gills. But he was still upright. Unbelievable. And the bukas were gone without a trace, not even a smell remained. Good work. Scary, but good.

And I think Piaras had done that all by himself. Sarad Nukpana had nothing to do with it. That was the scary part.

“Bravo, kid,” Vegard whispered in awe. The big Guardian’s grin was fierce.

There was a smattering of applause from the Guardians and watchers. The applause grew and with it came whistles.

Great. Once word got around, Piaras would be even more of a magical must-have than he already was.

I put an arm around his shoulders as he pulled himself upright. “Raine, I couldn’t stop myself,” he whispered, looking down at the dead elf sprawled in the street. “Once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

“I know,” I told him, resisting the urge to hug him. Later, not here, not now in front of dozens of Guardians and half the watchers in town. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Piaras’s brow creased in confusion. “How?”

“Not now. Let’s get off the streets first.”

“Sir Jari said you needed to talk to me,” Piaras told Mychael. “That’s why I went with them.”

“I know,” Mychael said. “I didn’t need to speak with you then, but I do now-and so does the archmagus.”

“You are not dragging him in front of that old man for judgment!” I was surprised at how vicious my voice sounded. I also didn’t care. I was too tired and angry and scared and a dozen other emotions to care what I said or how I said it.

We were in Mychael’s office in the citadel; Piaras was in the next room getting some cuts and scrapes taken care of by a Guardian healer.

“I’m not dragging him anywhere,” Mychael told me. “And Justinius is not going to judge him. He’s going to help him.”

“The man’s flat on his back and weak as a kitten. What help-”

Mychael’s sea blue eyes were on mine. “Raine, trust me.”

Trust was in short supply for me just now, as was patience and much-needed sleep. And I wasn’t about to let go of perfectly good anger that easily. All the fighting I’d done today was with magic-sometimes a woman just needed to hit something. An embassy guard would have been perfect. But there wasn’t one in the room with us, and if there had been, I was so tired I probably couldn’t have made a decent fist.

I swore and sighed. “Sorry.”

“About what?”

“Taking your head off. I just-”

Mychael’s lips creased in a smile. “I think it’s still attached, no apologies needed. You haven’t been given much reason to trust anyone, myself included. When I asked you to come here with me from Mermeia, I told you there were mages here who could help. Apparently those mages are in a smaller minority than I thought.”

“A minority of two,” I said. “You and the old man. And seeing that the two of you are the strongest mages on this island-that is, when the old man gets back on his feet-that’s two I’m grateful to have. Don’t think that I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me-or at least tried to do.”

“I knew there would be some who would want your power. I just didn’t think it would be-”

“Damned near every mage on the island,” I finished for him. I shrugged a shoulder. “Hey, I’m a Benares. If we’re not on the receiving end of trouble, we’re dishing it out. Trouble’s nothing new for me; I’ve just got more of it than usual right now.”

“I’ve been promising that I’ll get you out of this entire mess.” He paused. “I shouldn’t do that.”

I froze. “You shouldn’t get me out of this mess?”

“No, make the promise to do it. I’m going to do everything I can to keep that promise-”

“But it might not be enough,” I finished.

“No, it might not,” Mychael admitted. He ran his hand over the back of his neck and winced, rubbing what I knew had to be some tired and tense muscles. It’d been over a week since he’d declared martial law. Mychael was burning the candle at both ends and had to be running out of wick. “You’re still linked to the Saghred, and now you’re linked to Tam.”

“And to you,” I said quietly. “Mychael, you shouldn’t have done that.”

His hand stopped midrub, and he looked over at me. “No one forced me. I said I would do whatever I could to keep you safe; posting a sentry was one of those things. I swore to protect you.” He paused, and when he spoke his words were softer. “More important, I want to protect you.”

“And you could lose everything doing it. Literally. Your head included.”