Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

He gave a slow nod of agreement. “Makes sense.” He picked up a shirt, flipped it right-side out then folded it in a crisp series of moves. “I saw Lon Harris get electrocuted when a power line fell at the compound,” he said as he set the folded shirt down and picked up another. “He’s the one who tortured and killed Dickey, the security guard who shot me at the warehouse.”

“Remind me to send flowers to his funeral,” I said, sticking to the towels since Bryce’s folding skills were vastly superior to mine. “Dead ones.”

“Jerry made it out though,” Bryce continued, muscle twitching in his jaw. “I caught him on some news footage coming out of the hospital with his arm in a sling.” He snapped a shirt out with a sharp crack. “Too bad he didn’t go down.”

“With the investigations in full swing, he will, one way or another,” I reassured him.

Bryce gave me a predatory smile. “Yeah, he will,” he said, and I knew he’d make sure of it if the official channels failed.

I started on the dishtowels. “There’s more bothering you,” I said. “Spill.”

He exhaled. “Paul wiped all digital evidence that he, Sonny, and I had ever been involved with Farouche.” He stacked the folded shirt with the others, grimaced and looked up at me.

“But you’re still worried,” I finished for him. “Paper and off-line records are still out there, and will lead investigators right to you.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

I met his eyes. “What if there was a way for you to have a clean slate?”

He began to pair socks, adroitly avoiding several pairs of undies. “I’ve done some really bad shit, killed a lot of people in cold blood. But I’m not that man anymore. Could I still kill? Would I still kill? Yeah.” Sadness whispered through his voice. “But not like that. Never again. I won’t do someone else’s dirty work.” He neatly tucked two socks together in a ball. “That said, I don’t want to rot in prison. I don’t want to stop doing what I can against the Mraztur. I don’t want to leave Paul or Sonny. They’re my family. If I can get a clean slate, I’ll take it.”

“I’ve already been thinking about it,” I told him, “and I have some ideas on how to pull it off. Once Zack is back in the swing of things, he can help get new identities for you three.” If Zack is ever back in the swing of things .

Bryce dropped the socks to the table. “That’s . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head. “‘Thanks’ doesn’t cut it.”

I handed him the stack of dishtowels to put in the drawer. “If it wasn’t for you and Sonny and Paul, we wouldn’t have Idris back, and the Mraztur would be full steam ahead with their dangerous node-gate bullshit.”

He tucked the towels away. “I sure as hell want to do more. I’m in the game.”

“Good, then we’re stuck with you,” I said and thrust a bath towel at him. “And there’s a no-stench rule for my posse. Go. Shower.”

He smiled, took the towel, and turned toward the bathroom. “Kara’s Kavalry?”

“No!” I shouted at his back. “ Posse .”

Still smiling, I put the rest of the laundry away. I was putting the empty basket in the laundry room when I heard the front door open. Ryan.

My heart pounded. It was only Ryan. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself. I returned to the kitchen and peered down the hall, wanting to see and feel for myself who he was before he reached me. I didn’t want to misstep and say something I shouldn’t.

He approached with a smile, completely Ryan-like in looks and manner and walk. “You look better than you did when I left,” he said.

Well, shit. That didn’t give me a clue. “Um, how did I look?”

“Laid out on the sofa. Wasted after the ordeal.” He took off his suit jacket and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Uh huh,” I said, watching his every move. “The, um, ordeal of the stuff at the plantation?”

“That and what happened out there last night.” He nodded toward the backyard. “It’s okay. You can talk about it.”

My stomach did weird flip flops as I tried to shove the ragged clues into something that made sense. “How is it okay . . . Ryan?”

He still smiled, but a touch of sadness colored it now. “Because I know, ” he said quietly. “I know what I am, and I know that I stabbed you last night and healed you. I don’t know all the whys of it here on the surface,” he tapped his temple with a finger, “because I’m taking it one step at a time. This is pretty stressful.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “So you’re . . .” I nodded and struggled to smile. Was Ryan— my Ryan—gone?

“Szerain?” he finished for me. His brow furrowed. “I guess. It’s a little confusing for me. Shit, a lot confusing. I’m sorry. I don’t want to freak you out.”

I moved hesitantly to him, took his hand and peered into his face. It was Ryan’s yet more than Ryan’s, though I knew I’d never be able to explain it. My head told me it was time to grieve, told me this wasn’t Ryan anymore, but how could I grieve when he was still here?

“It’s really weird that you know about Szerain,” I said tentatively.

“You ought to try it from in here,” he said with what seemed a genuine Ryan smile. “You’re one tough chick, you know that?”

I let out a weak laugh. “Stubborn Bitch. Sheesh. Get the term right.”

“Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting.” He squeezed my hand, then blew out a breath. “So, what’s next?”

I had a feeling he meant in the grand scheme of conflict and crisis, but I didn’t have it in me to go there right now. Instead, I shrugged. “Dinner?”

He regarded me for a moment, relief in those green-gold eyes that reflected both Ryan and Szerain. “Yeah. That’s nice and normal. Let’s fix dinner.”

“Normal. Me cooking. Right,” I said, laughing a little. He craved the illusion of a normal life right now as much as I did.

“More me cooking and you,” he paused, “assisting,” he suggested. “I think that’s a better plan.”

“Safer for everyone.”

“Safety first.” He turned and opened the fridge, scanned the contents. “How about BLTs and french fries?”

“With double bacon, I’m in.”

Bryce and Jill joined us about halfway through the prep, and soon the kitchen echoed with jokes and banter and laughter. Each of us and all of us faced challenges and bore burdens unimaginable to ninety-nine point nine percent of the population, but for this evening we ruthlessly pushed them aside and gorged on food and friendship.

The ringing of my phone jarred me from an oddly logical dream about encyclopedias and babies and ladders. I peered at the name on the caller ID and instantly shot directly to wide awake.

“Zack?”

“Hey, babe.” He didn’t sound as strained as a day and a half ago but didn’t sound at all animated either. “Caught you sleeping, huh?”

I glanced at the clock. A little after eight a.m. “Yeah, working consultant hours is kind of cool. How are you doing?”

“I’ve been lots better,” he said. “I’m not ready to leave here yet. I . . . can’t.” He went quiet for a moment. “I just wanted to talk.”

I felt the subtle desperation behind the words. “I’m here for you,” I assured him. “Eturnahl.”

“Kara,” he said in a voice so thick with emotion it brought a lump to my throat. “You’re okay? Are you?”

“I am,” I said, smiling softly at his concern. “I promise. I’m really okay.” But then I sighed out a breath. “I’m sorry if giving Vsuhl to Szerain made things harder for you.”