Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

“What about Bryce’s car?” Paul asked, brow furrowing with renewed concern as he looked over at the white SUV. “Oh man, they’re gonna freak out no matter what.”

“We’ll deal with it,” I said. Somehow. It was all too probable that we’d deal with the SUV by leaving it right where it was.

I started the car and headed home. I couldn’t even be relieved that we were leaving a mess behind. I flicked a quick glance at the rear view mirror. No, we were bringing this mess home with us. All I could do was hope it would be worth it.

We made it home without further incident. I parked and got out, opened the back door to let Eilahn carry Thatcher inside. I watched her go in, Paul trailing her, then took Mzatal’s hand as he got out of the car.

“Boss,” I said softly. “You’re drained.” I looked up at him with deep concern.

He gave a weary nod. “I will go to the confluence now,” he said, starting to walk around the house. “It will help.”

I tightened my hold on his hand as we walked. “It won’t be enough. You need to return.” I hated it, but I didn’t want him to overextend or get hurt, either due to the drain itself or by being ambushed by a hostile lord upon his return to the demon realm more depleted than he already was.

“I will rest,” he said again, shook his head. “It is too soon to leave.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I said, turning to face him as we reached that spot in the backyard. “But I’d rather kick you off Earth than see you do yourself lasting damage.”

Exhaling, he sank to his knees in the grass, then shifted to sit cross-legged. I crouched before him and kissed him. “What’s the deal with Paul?” I asked, changing the subject. There was only so much arguing I could do with Mzatal. “You said he was coerced into working for Farouche by that fear. Is he a prisoner?”

“I do not know more of his status with Farouche,” Mzatal told me, expression darkening. “He carried deep, pervasive fear of the man and of the consequences of betraying him.”

My knees began to ache, so I plopped down cross-legged. “Is his devotion to Thatcher also influenced or implanted by Farouche?”

“The attachment to Bryce Thatcher seems genuine, beloved,” Mzatal said. “It continues even though I have unwound the compulsion.” His brow creased. “Paul was at war with himself, both wanting and not wanting to return to this Farouche. He found a deep sense of security and fulfillment in Farouche’s service, even though it carried with it a strong undercurrent of fear.”

I carefully mulled all of this over, including the very selfish consideration that Paul and his apparent genius hacker computer skills could be really useful to us. “Thatcher needs a lot more healing, doesn’t he?”

“He does. I will continue after I rest.”

Seriously? Mzatal had to be the stubbornest lord ever. “No, Boss,” I said. “I think that after you rest you should return to your realm and take those two with you.” I took a deep breath, fixed him with a hard look. “That will allow you to recharge, Thatcher to get completely healed, and will keep Paul away from Farouche for a couple of days—hopefully long enough for us to figure out what the real deal is.”

“I will rest,” Mzatal replied, but before I could open my mouth to argue with him again he added, “and then I will reassess.” He took my hand, stroked his thumb over the cracked stone of my ring. “We have no information on Idris,” he said, the ache in his voice palpable.

I lifted my hand and kissed his fingers. “I know.” I gave him a slight smile. “Why the hell do you think I want to get a hacker on our side?”

His eyes met mine, and I saw him read the implications from me. “Ah, I understand.” He considered it, gave a slight nod. “Useful, yes.”

“You’ll do it? You’ll go home and take them with you?”

“I will reassess after I rest. Soon.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d reassess upside his head if he didn’t get the hell home and recharge properly. “Of course, darling,” I said with a sweet smile. I knew damn well he’d read those thoughts. “I’ll go in and check on our guests now.” I gave him a parting kiss, then stood and headed inside.

Eilahn had situated Thatcher on the bed in the guest room where Zack had been staying. She’d stripped and bagged his gear and bloody clothing and wrapped him in a sheet. Paul sat on a stool beside the bed, clutching Thatcher’s hand. I stopped in the open doorway, leaned against the jamb.

“Lord Mzatal will take care of him,” I said gently. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t get it,” Paul said, voice carrying his fatigue and worry. He looked over at me. “How is this possible? Who is he? Who are you?”

“I’m Kara Gillian,” I told him. This part, at least, was easy. “I used to be a homicide detective with the Beaulac Police Department.” Now came the not so easy part. Then again, this kid had already seen some miracles, so maybe it would go over all right. “I’m also an arcane practitioner,” I continued. “I have the ability to open a portal between this world and another and summon its denizens through it. Lord Mzatal is a qaztahl, one of eleven lords of that world.” I stopped to let that sink in.

He stared at me. “Another world ?”

I nodded. “It sounds pretty crazy, I know. But, then again, you’ve seen that arcane power truly exists.” I lifted my chin toward his friend on the bed.

Paul gulped, looked down at his hand in Thatcher’s. “Yeah. Miracle. He was almost . . .” His face paled as he choked on the word. Dead.

“He’s going to be okay,” I repeated. I wanted to emphasize the hell out of that. I tilted my head and regarded him. “How long have you worked for StarFire and Mr. Farouche?”

“Um,” he darted his eyes around the room nervously, as if wishing someone else could answer the question for him. “About a year,” he finally said.

“Cool.” I gave him a friendly smile. This was nothing more than two people chatting, shooting the shit, getting to know each other. Nice and casual. “You like working for them?”

A variety of emotions crawled across his face, running the gamut from wonder to fear. “It’s, um, good work for me.”

Nice way to not answer the question. “How’d you get the job with them?”

His face paled, and he hunched his shoulders. “Recruited,” he said though it was almost more question than statement.

I took a step into the room, met his eyes. “Forcefully?”

Panic whispered through his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. “Force?” His voice shook on the word, but then he took a breath and eased as though a nightmare slipped away. Lingering echoes of the Farouche influence, perhaps.

“How did they get you, Paul?” I asked quietly as I moved farther into the room. “Did they coerce you by threatening someone else, someone close to you? Or did they simply grab you in the night and put you to work?”

He looked away, shoulders slumping and misery written into his face. “No threats,” he said in a low voice. “They came and took me. No warning.”

The poor guy looked so beaten down, bewildered and torn. “Paul, we can help you.”

“I just need Bryce to get better.”

“He’s still in bad shape, Paul,” I said. “He needs the kind of healing the lord can only do in his own world.” I touched his shoulder. “Would you be willing to go with your friend to that other world for a day or two? He needs it, and it would also give you more time to decide how you want to live the rest of your life.”

He stared at me in baffled shock, clearly trying to figure out if what he thought he heard me say was really what I’d said. “You mean not on Earth?”