Lisa Shearin: The Trouble With Demons

As always, for Derek

Thank you for encouraging my dream, for understanding the hours I spend at the computer, and for knowing when to take me to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard. Chocolate ice cream and M&M’S make any plot snag (or author crankiness/stress) go away. You’re the perfect author husband. I love you more than words can say.

To God, who makes all things possible and who made my dream come true.

To Kristin Nelson, who in my opinion is the best agent on the planet. Period. And to Nelson Literary Agency assistant Sara Megibow, who always gets me what I need even before I know I want it.

To my fabulous editor, Anne Sowards. You share my vision for Raine’s stories and probably know what I’m thinking before I write it down.

To Aleta Rafton, my amazing cover artist. Thank you for bringing Raine to demon-butt-kicking life.

To Cameron Dufty, Ace editorial assistant (and in my opinion the best editorial assistant in New York), and my new Ace publicist, Rosanne Romanello. Thank you both for all of your hard work and endless energy.

To Shari Lambert, for bringing artistic flair to the map of Raine’s world. I can’t draw a tree or mountain to save my life.

To Todd and Elyse, my splendid webmaster and designer. Thank you for making www.lisashearin.com such a cool place to visit and hang out.

To the cherished members of my Yahoo! Group fan club-Raine’s Rangers. I can always go there for support, encouragement, and a good laugh. You guys are the best. And mucho thanks to David, Marie, Megan, Patty, and Renee-the moderators who keep the party under control. Save me a bar stool in the tavern and pour me a pint.

To simply the best fans any author could ever hope for. Your e-mails, blog posts, cards, and endless enthusiasm keep me going. These books are for you.

I knew there was evil in the world. Death and taxes were all necessary evils.

So was shopping.

“I hate shopping,” I muttered.

“Of course you do,” Phaelan said. “You’re a Benares. We’re not used to paying for anything.” Phaelan was my cousin; he called himself a seafaring businessman. Law enforcement in every major port city called him “that damned pirate,” or less flattering epithets, none of them repeatable here.

I really hated shopping. More to the point, I hated the aggravation of having to go into one shop after another to actually find the things I needed, things I had to have. Which was really strange considering what I did for a living.

My name is Raine Benares. I’m an elf and a seeker-and then some.

Two weeks ago, I found the Saghred-an ancient stone of cataclysmic power, an annihilator of armies, a stealer of souls, an eater of spellsingers, and the bane of my existence. The soul-sucking rock attached itself to me like a psychic leech. My magical skill level used to be marginal. Now I don’t think I have any limits.

So I came to the only place with people who could possibly help me.

The Isle of Mid was home to the most prestigious college for sorcery, as well as the Conclave, the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms. My new talents put me at the top of every power-hungry mage’s most-wanted list. They wanted to kill me, or kidnap and use me, or keep me locked up for the rest of my life. I just wanted to get rid of the damned rock.

Since arriving on the island, I’d stepped hard on some faculty toes, assaulted the number-two mage on the island (he started it), single-handedly stormed the elven embassy, then topped it off with a walk on black magic’s wild side with a sexy goblin dark mage. It was a good way to make a bad first impression.

If that wasn’t enough, now I had to go shopping. I had one good set of leathers, and I was wearing them: trousers, above-the-knee boots, and my favorite doublet, all in formfitting, supple brown leather. I liked the doublet because it had steel links woven between the outer leather and inner lining. It also had leather sleeves to hide my weapons, a pair of knives in forearm sheaths I carried when I knew someone was going to jump me, but I just didn’t know when, which over the past few weeks had become the story of my life.

My leathers had taken a beating since I’d arrived on Mid, and as little as I liked it, I had to replace them, hence the need to shop.

“Have you considered something in scarlet leather?” Phaelan mused from beside me.

“Have you considered just painting a bull’s-eye on my back?” I retorted.

My cousin wasn’t with me because he liked shopping. He was by my side because being within five feet of me was a guarantee of getting into trouble of the worst kind. Phaelan hadn’t plundered or pillaged anything in weeks. He was bored. So this morning, he was a cocky, swaggering invitation for Trouble to bring it on and do her worst.

Phaelan ignored my irritation, and his grin flashed white against his tanned face. “Raine, everyone knows who you are, what you are, and where you are. It’s not like you’re trying to hide.”

“Ma’am, there are mages on this island who could kill you without even seeing you.”

That cheerful insight came from Vegard Rolfgar, Conclave Guardian, my bodyguard, and my personal shadow. He was big, blond, bearded, and human-classic Myloran sea-raider stock. The Guardians were sorcerers and warriors, and had the dubious honor of being peacekeepers on an island packed with mage bureaucrats, mage professors, and teenage mages in training-a volatile combination any way you looked at it.

“Yes, I’ve got a price on my head and every other body part,” I said. “Do either one of you have a point?”

Phaelan’s laugh was more like a bark. “Live fast, die young, and leave behind a damned fine-dressed corpse.”

My cousin favored scarlet, but today he was a vision in royal blue. His trousers were leather; his doublet was suede slashed to reveal the whitest of linen shirts. High leather boots matched his belt and baldric, all of black leather, and his dark hair was tied into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Phaelan’s favorite rapier swung comfortably at his side, with a brace of long daggers behind his back. There were plenty of other bladed weapons out of sight, but within quick reach. Our family didn’t like to be caught short.

I made a show of looking him over. “Much like yourself?”

Phaelan leveled those dark eyes on me. “Cousin, you can slink around this island in black or brown, or you can show the bastards that your balls are bigger than theirs. You’re the Saghred’s best friend; they’re scared shitless of you.”

The aforementioned bastards also wanted what I had-potentially unlimited power without the insanity and death side effects that typically went with Saghred exposure and use. But just because contact with the rock hadn’t turned me into a cackling loony or killed me yet didn’t mean that a padded room with level twelve wards wasn’t in my not-so-distant future.

I had to be careful; more than careful-vigilant. Of the Saghred, but mostly of myself. As long as I tapped its power, the rock didn’t give a damn what I did with it. Even though I had done only good things for the right reasons-like refusing to stand by and let innocent people be killed-using the Saghred’s power to prevent those deaths had probably brought me one step closer to crazy. Or not. Everyone else who had used the Saghred had quickly gone off the deep end. I hadn’t. And no one, including me, knew why.