Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

“I don’t know,” Bryce said with a slow shake of his head. “He left this morning and said he’d be back tonight.”

“Did he look like . . . Ryan when he left?” I asked somewhat hesitantly. I had a sudden image of an unsubmerged, Vsuhl-wielding Szerain out in the world. I couldn’t help but worry about, well, consequences .

“Yeah, he did,” Bryce said to my relief. “While you were busy getting pesky holes in your chest, Sonny left about a billion messages on my phone telling me Zack wanted to talk to Ryan—I mean, Szerain.” He grimaced. “Szerain went down to the basement to return Zack’s call, and when he came back up a little after sunrise he was all Ryan. Looks, mannerisms, everything.”

Zack had sensed it all—the blade, Szerain unsubmerging. That must have freaked him out pretty hard. But how did Szerain get to be Ryan again? As far as I knew, the act of submersion—including making him look like Ryan—was inflicted on him by another. Had Zack recovered enough to blip over and do it? I found that improbable; he’d been a total mess when I left him. Could he have done it over the phone somehow?

Or did another enforcer come to take Zack’s place? My mouth went dry at the thought. I doubted any other would show Szerain the mercies that had kept him sane for all these years.

I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Anything to eat around here?”

“There should be leftovers,” he said. “Plus sandwich stuff. Hang tight, and I’ll check.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.

Not so easy to hang tight with a bladder about to burst. I made my way to the bathroom, did my business, then flopped back on the sofa and promptly fell asleep again.

I woke to find a ham and cheese sandwich with chips on the coffee table, and Bryce dozing in the comfy chair with his head cocked to the side in a way that would likely leave him with an aching neck. A half-eaten sandwich rested forgotten on his thigh. I got up, gingerly retrieved his sandwich and returned it to a plate on the side table, adjusted his head to a more comfortable position then grabbed my food and headed for the kitchen.

I ate slowly, savoring the sandwich, the feel of my kitchen, the scent of gardenias from the bush outside the window. But mostly I took the time to appreciate being me . Who I was had nothing to do with being a cop or a summoner or with who my friends were. It was far more intrinsic than any set of externals.

Tunjen and a handful of grapes finished off the meal. I felt good , definitely better than I had since Rhyzkahl hit me with the rakkuhr virus. The ache to share with Mzatal threatened to take over, and I pushed it down, sealed it away. No point in going there.

It worked. A bit.

After I tucked my plate into the dishwasher, I realized I had no idea what to do next. There were plenty of things that needed to be dealt with, but nothing immediate and in my face.

Get clean, I decided. When in doubt, shower.

Once in the bathroom, I stripped, gazed at my reflection in the mirror. A patch of smooth skin between the ribs to the left of my sternum marked the place where Vsuhl had pierced. Technically, it wasn’t a scar at all, but rather a lack of one within the other scars. Yet it felt like one as it marred the lines of Mzatal’s sigil, left a gap in the flowing curves of his signature mark. I touched the spot, reflexively reached for him. I sensed him, even though he was in the demon realm, but what would have been a faint, tingling hum before was now rigid, cold silence. Why, Mzatal? It shouldn’t end like this. Not without a word.

With a shuddering breath, I pushed away thoughts of what I couldn’t change right now, ran my hands over the other scars. Still the same.

Except for one.

I turned slowly away from the mirror, looked back over my shoulder at the reflection of the twelfth sigil, the one Szerain had altered. Then stared. I’d felt four cuts, nothing more, but he hadn’t simply added to the existing scar. He’d changed it completely. How was that possible? The angular rigidity of the original had been replaced by artistic curves and flourishes that spoke of delicate strength. But even that wasn’t enough for my World of Weirdness. It wasn’t even a scar anymore. It was more like an arcane tattoo—beautiful, captivating, and glowing sapphire in othersight.

I twisted while I looked over my shoulder in the mirror and reached awkwardly for the altered scar—or whatever it was now. Smooth skin, a nearly imperceptible tingle. It didn’t feel wrong , arcanely or otherwise. But still—

“Eilahn!” In a heartbeat she came through the door. “What did Szerain do?” I asked her, my voice shaking in a blend of anger tinged with fear. “Did he fucking mark me?”

She laid her hand on the sigil. “I would not be here in peace had the kiraknikahl placed his mark upon you.”

No, she wouldn’t. I allowed myself a bit of relief. “What then? Why is it a live sigil rather than a scar?” But the answer hit me before she could respond. “Because Szerain completed the process,” I breathed. “If Rhyzkahl had finished his torture ritual, all of the sigils would be like this, and I would be the Rowan bitch with arcanely glowing body art.”

“You are correct. And Szerain saved you with this,” she said, lightly patting the sigil. “I do not know its full purpose, but without it, Kara Gillian would be no more.”

And with that cheerful thought, she left me to my shower.

Half an hour later I was clean, Bryce was snoring in the chair, and I was still at loose ends. Fine then. When clean and in doubt, surf the Internet.

I spent about an hour checking news sites and watching reports online, then shut the computer down and returned to the kitchen.

Bryce shuffled in from the living room as I pondered the menu for the Kara’s Kafe dinner special of the day. I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Dude, you look worse than you did before you napped,” I noted helpfully. “You should go crash for real.”

“Yeah. I will in a bit,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I need a shower and some food first.”

“You’ve been through a lot of shit,” I said. “Always feels good to wash it off. And I speak from vast experience.” I gave him a smile. “I’ll get the food part handled. Go shower.”

The dryer buzzed in the laundry room, and I headed that way. Mundane tasks. Dishes. Dinner. Laundry. Boring and comfortable. I knew the normalcy of it was an illusion, but I intended to cling to it while I could.

I dumped the dryer contents into a basket, hefted it, and returned to the kitchen. I could fold while I figured out what to cook. Yet when I returned I saw Bryce staring out the window, still unshowered, and with a troubled expression on his face.

A glance out the window showed nothing but my backyard in the late evening light. I plunked the basket onto the table. “Bryce? You okay?”

He turned, leaned back against the counter. “Did you see what they’re saying on the news about the plantation incident?” he asked. “Or rather, what they’re not saying.”

I nodded. “The official line is that it was a big fire with several suspected dead, and that a body resembling James Macklin Farouche was found at the scene although ID has not yet been confirmed.” I pulled out a towel and started folding. “Investigations are already ramping up, but I doubt you’ll be seeing any stories on the ten o’clock news about a wizard calling lightning, especially since the eyewitnesses have so many conflicting stories.” I shrugged. “People always find a way to explain weird shit and make it something rational. And with everything from ‘alien invasion’ to ‘secret government experiment conspiracies’ popping up on the Internet, anyone who tells the truth about what happened will be labeled a nutjob and dismissed.”