Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

His hand clenched in the covers, and tension surged through him. “They didn’t have to do that,” he said, each word infused with a rage I’d never seen in him before. “They didn’t have to DO that.”

“No, they didn’t,” I said, voice choked. “Idris, I’m so sorry.”

Filled with pain and fury, his eyes went to mine. “Where is Aaron Asher?” he demanded, voice still hoarse but with a razor edge I’d never heard in him before. “Aaron Asher and Jerry Steiner.” His neck corded as he snarled the names out. “Do you know where they are?”

“Kadir has Asher,” I told him. “Farouche is dead. Bryce killed him.” My eyes dropped to my hand resting on his fist. “There were a number of casualties and injured, but we spotted Jerry on a news clip.” I lifted my gaze to his pain-wracked face. “I swear to you, I’ll make sure you get him.”

The black rage spilled away from him like water from a torn balloon. He let out his breath in a long and shaking exhalation, then he unclenched his hand and turned it over to take mine. “Thanks,” he murmured. He simply looked exhausted now, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to find some way to wipe away the dark circles beneath his eyes and smooth away the lines of grief and fear and anger. “Kadir won’t damage Asher,” he said after a moment, words beginning to slur. “Need summoners.”

“Maybe he’ll just hurt him a lot,” I offered and got a short breathless laugh back. His eyelids were starting to lose the battle against gravity, though. “You should get some sleep,” I said, then smiled softly. “Glad to have you back.” Cousin , I added silently.

“Yeah . . . good . . . back . . . home,” he mumbled as his eyes drifted closed.

So many questions I had for him. About his work with the Mraztur, about what he did in Texas with Asher, and so much more. All on hold for a while. The same way I felt on hold until Mzatal and I could talk about our own issues.

I sat with Idris for a few more minutes, until his breathing deepened and lines of stress in his face eased, then gently pulled my hand from his and crept from the room.

After that, I felt a need to move my body. I briefly debated going for a run, but a sluggish rain changed my mind. There were times I enjoyed running in the rain, but today wasn’t one of them.

I finally settled on a long, steady swim in the glorious indoor natural rock pool. Once my muscles were the consistency of limp noodles, I sank into the hot springs basin beside it, traced a triple pygah to float above, and set it spinning. Sometimes I came here to think. This time I came to not think. I focused on breathing, the rush of the river falls below, and the melodic chattering hiss of the small waterfall that fed the pool. And it worked. I lost track of time and emerged feeling cleaner.

Hair still damp, and dressed in a comfortable demon realm version of designer sweats, I made my way to one of Mzatal’s favorite places, the roof terrace. As always, when I stepped from the stairway into the spacious glassed conservatory, I felt as though I stood on top of the world. Two levels above that of the plexus, it commanded a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding area. Plants filled the space, none over chest high so as not to obstruct the view, and the soft, sweet scent of a variety of flowers filled the air.

Rain slid down the glass in graceful rivulets, but a slash of blue sky to the west, far out over the sea, told me it would end soon. I made my way to the luxurious sitting area, intending to simply relax until sunset, a rare luxury these days.

A brush of sound alerted me, and I turned to see Elofir step from the stairs. He no longer wore the sweat-soaked shirt, but it was still clear the past few hours in the plexus hadn’t been a walk in the park for him.

Faruk darted up the stairs and held out a towel and a glass of tunjen for him. Elofir thanked the faas, took a long drink of the tunjen, mopped the sweat from his throat and neck, then gave me a smile.

“Is the plexus all properly plexusy?” I asked with a return smile.

He dropped into a broad chair so cushiony that it seemed he sank a foot into its embrace. “It is far from stable,” he said with a light grimace, “but Mzatal will work it until sunset, and then I will go back.”

“Back to the plexus? Or your realm?”

“The plexus,” he clarified. His gaze drifted toward the vibrant amethyst and emerald canopy of the grove to the south, and he looked briefly wistful. “It will likely be days before we return to my realm, though Michelle is more than ready. The node incident caused much instability.”

I sat on a settee near him, tucked one leg underneath me. “Kadir looked pissed when he came through the node.”

Elofir returned his attention to me, nodded. “Kadir is still . . . pissed,” he said. “He was here earlier. He seeks Mzatal when he is distressed.”

“Mzatal hurt him when he called the lightning,” I said after a moment.

But Elofir merely shook his head. “That injury was as nothing to him,” he told me. “Kadir bore no ill will over that. It is the node instability and disruption of the potency flows that has him angry and agitated. He is very . . . fastidious and exacting about the flows.”

I considered these recently discovered aspects of Kadir the Creepy. None of them made him seem any less creepy, but they sure made it hard to get an honest feel for him. Capable of doling out unspeakable torment. Honorable to the point of rigidity concerning agreements—though I had no doubt he would seek and exploit a loophole in a heartbeat. Some sort of wizardly genius with the flows and rituals. Champion of maintaining arcane stability of the demon realm. Loved by Fuzzykins , for fuck’s sake. Freaky-weird about pain. And the memory of the sight and sound of his burned thigh cracking when he crouched still gave me the heebie jeebies.

“Mzatal almost killed Paul.” The words tumbled from me even though I’d intended to work up to the topic more gradually. “Almost killed all of us.” It was the first time I’d said it aloud.

All trace of lightness drained from Elofir’s face. “Yes, he told me,” he said quietly. He wiped his face and neck one more time then set the towel aside. “He does not want it to happen again.”

I dropped both feet to the floor and leaned forward. “Then how can I help him make sure it never happens again?”

Elofir’s expression turned grim, and when he spoke, his words carried a foreboding resonance. “He will tell you he can prevent it. And it will be true.” He stood and moved to the southern glass doors, opened them and stepped out onto the expansive open terrace despite the persistent weak drizzle. “He can build impenetrable walls,” he continued. “Nothing gets through them. In or out.”

I stood and followed him, frowned at his back. “Like when he shut me out? That’s how he controls it?” I asked with growing dismay. “By shutting everyone out?”

“Yes. Being open means being open to the anger as well as all else. He chose to withdraw eons ago when he could no longer control it.” He turned back to me. A deep sadness filled his eyes. “He lived thus for a very long time. Formidable, uncompromising, devious, though never speaking an untruth. Never wantonly cruel, but hard. Cold.”

“Why did he change?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

Elofir gave a slight nod as he read it from me. “Idris. You.” He exhaled, wiped a hand over his eyes, flicked rain away. “The two of you found a hairline crack in his wall, broke him open. Kara, it has been over two thousand years since he and I have had any cooperative undertakings outside of the Conclave or anomaly control.”