Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

Hands clenched in my lap, I sat on the edge of the bed and willed myself not to cry despite the near overwhelming need to do exactly that.

A moment later, Zack spoke softly from the other side of the door. “Kara.”

“What.”

“I’m sorry.”

No way could I say “It’s all right” or “I forgive you” or anything like that, because it wasn’t and I didn’t. But I didn’t want to twist the knife further either. Zack had been oathbound long before he met me. Desperate worry about Tessa wound through my gut, along with the beginnings of a horrible suspicion about who Idris’s daddy might be, yet the idea that I might lose the Zack I thought I knew added a nauseating veneer. “Look, I can’t talk about this anymore,” I said in a shaking voice. “I need to be alone.”

Silence, then, “Would it be easier for you if I stay away from here?”

I didn’t know what I wanted except for the sick ache to disappear. “No, you don’t have to leave.” Why did this shit have to hurt so much?

After a moment I heard a soft noise as though he’d lifted his hand from the door. “All right,” he finally said. “I’m heading back to the office.” When he spoke after another moment of silence, his voice held no luster. “Kara, I’m really sorry you’re hurting.”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer as I fought to hold back tears. When I heard the front door close I finally buried my face in my pillow and gave in.

Eventually the hurt, betrayal, and worry coalesced into a more comfortable and familiar anger and general upset. I sat up and scrubbed my hand over my face. Enough unproductive bawling. I needed to get my ass up and move, lose myself in sweat and exhaustion. A perfect time to try out the obstacle course.

The fed-boys had done a good job with it, I decided with grudging respect. Without removing any living trees, they’d managed to create a clever and circuitous route through the woods, and had installed a dozen obstacles in existing natural clearings along it—walls of various heights, rope climbs, low crawls, wobbly log bridges, and more—all challenging without being ridiculous.

Forty-five minutes later and two rounds through the course, I stood bent over at the waist, hands on my knees, sick from the heat. Once hadn’t been enough. Twice hadn’t quite done the trick either, but I knew a third time would likely kill me. Besides, there were other tried and true ways to deal with emotional upheaval.

Once I could walk again without puking, I headed into the house to down a big glass of water. After that—and as soon as I knew my stomach wouldn’t rebel—I grabbed a spoon and a gallon of chocolate fudge ice cream, then flopped, stinky and dirty, into a chair at the kitchen table. A shower could wait. I had more important things to do.

About four spoonfuls in, I heard the front door open. Shit, don’t let it be Zack, not yet , I thought, then released my breath, relieved, when Ryan came into the kitchen. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them to the table with a clatter. I glanced at him, defiantly ate another spoonful.

“Sweat, stench, and ice cream,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Your partner,” I said and barely remembered in time that I couldn’t tell him the whole story since Ryan didn’t know Zack was a demon. “He’s a jerk.”

He stiffened. “Surfer Boy Zack got you worked up enough to stink and shovel ice cream? That’s my job. What did he do?”

“It’s hard to explain. Anyway, I’d like to let it go now.”

Ryan got an odd look on his face, as though he was trying to work through a complex problem while on good drugs. He looked at me, but I wasn’t sure he saw me.

“Ryan? You okay?”

Without any indication he’d heard me, he stripped off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then headed for the back door.

Something with Szerain? With the faintest of pouts, I stood and shoved the ice cream back in the freezer. Can’t even have a decent pity party around here. I followed Ryan out and stopped on the porch, watching. He paced this way and that in the grass before settling cross-legged with his back to me. My skin prickled. That was the same place Mzatal had identified as a potency confluence, where he’d gone to recharge.

I slowly moved to sit facing him. Ryan stared down, his hands wound in the grass in clenched claws. I waited in tense silence, certain that Szerain sought to express, and I didn’t want to disturb the process. A quick mental pygah helped me shed the distraction of the issues with Zack, and I hoped would also help Szerain.

A beetle trundled between the clenched blades of grass. An ant crawled over one knuckle and then down to the dirt again.

“Kara.”

I watched in fascination as the ant found a seed and hoisted it. What a strong fellow it was!

“Kara.”

I heard Szerain speaking, voice strained. “Kara,” he repeated, as though testing his ability.

Speaking to me , I abruptly realized. I yanked my gaze up to him. “Here,” I said quickly. “I’m here, Szerain.”

A tremor started in his hands and quickly swept over the rest of his body. “As . . . am I.”

“How? How can you be surfaced without Zack releasing you?” Or Vsuhl drawing you out .

“Practice. Focus. Confluence. Grate looser.” He drew a deep shuddering breath and gave a moan that sounded like pleasure. I guess he’d learned not to take the simple things for granted. “What trouble with Zakaar?”

“I had a falling out with him. A humongous one.” I exhaled as the memory and emotions returned. “I found out that my aunt has been manipulated to not know anything about being in the demon realm. I asked him if it was Rhyzkahl, which, after a lot of prodding, he confirmed. Then I asked him where his loyalties lay.” I sighed. “I had to sweat and scarf down ice cream after that.”

“Did not like the answer.”

“No. No, I didn’t. Rhyzkahl inflicted heinous torment on me.” The sigils carved into my torso itched and tingled like thin lines of sunburn at the reminder. “I don’t understand how Zakaar can maintain any connection to him.”

“Ptarl,” Szerain said as though it explained everything.

“Yeah, he’s still that asshole’s ptarl. Why?” I asked. The anger and frustration flared again. “How can he be my friend?” My jaw tightened. “Never mind, he can’t be that. How can he be an ally and still be with Rhyzkahl?”

He lifted his head in a motion that took supreme effort judging by the increase in his tremors. He struggled to open his eyes. “Still ptarl. Always.” Finally his gaze met mine, and enveloped me in ancient depths. “The bond.” He paused, as though recovering from the ordeal of opening his eyes. “The bond is made.”

“Yes, fine, he has a bond,” I said, “but some things are deal breakers—or at least they should be.”

Szerain recoiled from the words as though I’d spoken blackest heresy, though for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why. His face contorted in a disturbing dance of pain and horror and fury, all overlaid with madness. His hands curled into fists, ripped up tufts of grass. “No! Cannot be. There cannot be deal breakers. Not with ptarl.”

I seized one of his hands. “Szerain, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, I’m pygahing. Feel it.” I emphasized the command in my tone, hoping to penetrate the grip of what had set him off. Deal breaking related to a ptarl .

Shit. I’d forgotten Szerain was one of two lords separated from their ptarl. Kadir’s simply didn’t associate with him, but Szerain’s ptarl was either in hiding or dead, though most thought it was the latter. From what I gathered now, separated didn’t mean the bond was broken. Did being away from his ptarl add another degree of misery to the already tormented Szerain? At any rate, it was clearly a sore point I needed to avoid with him in such an unstable state.