Diana Rowland - Fury of the Demon

The wave of memories receded, and I found myself with my forehead resting on Mzatal’s chest and his arms around me. Rasha didn’t have a name for the man with the ugly smile, the one who’d raped Amber, but I did: Jerry Steiner. He’d taken her from the plantation, brought her here, and helped ensure her end was not an easy one. Shuddering, I held Mzatal close as we shared the pain and found balance within each other.

“They don’t know him,” I murmured and lifted my head to look into Mzatal’s face. “They don’t know Idris, and they made a huge mistake.” The Mraztur and their Earth accomplices could have ensured themselves a long-term and highly useful tool, simply with a touch of Farouche’s disturbing fear-influence and members of Idris’s family held as hostages. But instead they chose to defile and murder his sister before his eyes, when an unrelated person would have served as well for their gruesome death ritual. And certainly no need for Idris to witness it. I’d seen Idris’s face through Rasha’s eyes. They’d destroyed their tool along with his innocence and forged a true enemy.

“They have indeed erred, to our advantage,” Mzatal said, though his voice still held a growl.

“Idris told Rasha they were following node emissions. Like the geyser effect at the warehouse? Why?”

“There is potency to be harnessed through the emissions, as Tracy Gordon attempted with the gate at the warehouse node.” He shook his head. “Though I do not know the Mraztur’s plan, that it involves the nodes is both enlightening and disturbing. It is unwise to tamper with such, and it disturbs me that Idris is involved.”

“We’re going to bring him home.”

“Soon,” he replied with utter conviction, and in the ancient depths of his eyes lay grim resolve and the promise of vengeance.

“Then let’s get started,” I said. “Rasha is under Farouche’s influence. Probably best to take care of that first.” The teakettle began a plaintive wail from the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea for her. She could probably use it.”

Mzatal gave a slight nod, then exited the chamber to tend to Rasha while I returned to the kitchen. Paul was there, in the process of removing the kettle from the heat. A broom leaned against the counter, and I saw the shards of china in a neat pile.

He gave me a tentative smile. “I figured I’d make myself useful.”

“Like that’s ever a problem with you,” I said. “How’s Rasha?”

“Freaked out .” He plucked a cup from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag into it. “Bryce is doing pretty good keeping her calm though.”

“She has the Farouche juju on her,” I told him. “Mzatal’s clearing that right now.”

He poured the hot water into the cup, then retreated to his laptop on the table. “You’ll want to see this,” he said as he typed. “Check this out.” He turned the screen toward me to reveal a photo of a lovely dark-haired woman in an evening dress, in her fifties or so and with a Middle Eastern look about her, posing with the governor of Louisiana. “I recognized her from photos in the living room and pulled this up for you. It’s Big Mack’s first wife,” he told me. “Rasha’s daughter, Aria Farouche .”

“Fucking shit,” I breathed. “This is one hell of a tangled mess.” Farouche had divorced this woman seventeen years ago, a couple of years after their five year old daughter—who I now knew to be Rasha’s granddaughter—had been abducted. “Where is she now?”

“Living happily in New Orleans with plenty of cash from B.M.,” he said. “They apparently still get along pretty well. She came to the plantation several times last year for holidays and stuff.”

“How cozy,” I said. “Is she Jade’s mother?”

He shook his head. “Her aunt. Jade’s parents died in a house fire when she was eight. Jade survived but had some bad burns on her legs.”

I let all that sink in as I took the teabag from the cup and set it aside. “Anything else?”

“Not yet. That’s all I had time for.”

“You rock,” I stated. “Let’s go see what other surprises she has for us.” I picked up the cup of tea and turned toward the living room then stopped and stared at the notepad beside the phone on the kitchen counter. My name and number were written on it in awkward, shaky writing. She’d wanted to call me, to warn me, but hadn’t. Or couldn’t because of Farouche’s influence. Poor woman.

As I moved down the two steps into the sunken living room, I quickly took in the surroundings. A worn sofa, chaise lounge, and two wingback chairs. A fireplace, coffee table, and various shelves holding a host of framed photos. Everything neat and clean, with only a modicum of dust.

Face dreamy, Rasha sat in one of the chairs with Mzatal behind her, his hands on her head. It was clearly her usual spot to judge by the tissues, eyeglasses case, and books on the table beside it. Two framed photos rested by the books: one of teenaged Jade dressed in a blue and white cheerleading outfit, and one of a laughing girl about five.

I placed the cup on her table, then settled on the chaise lounge and waited for Mzatal to finish his work. Bryce maintained a watchful position by the arch that led to the entryway, and Paul settled onto the step beside him.

After a few minutes Mzatal lifted his hands from her head and moved to a position beside me, expression as unreadable as ever, though now he merely loomed instead of LOOMED .

Rasha’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from Mzatal to me. “Macklin was behind this? He came for a visit before. He seemed so concerned about me. So normal.”

Mzatal had apparently given her some basic halo-tarnishing information on James Macklin Farouche once he’d cleared the bastard’s influence.

“Yes, he was,” I said, not surprised by the visit. To lay the fear, no doubt. “At least for some of what’s occurred on Earth. I’m sorry.”

Grief deepened the lines in her face. “He changed after Madeleine was abducted. My beautiful granddaughter.” Her hand trembled as she touched the picture of the little girl on the side table. “But I never imagined he would go this far. I never saw that in him.”

“He’s hurt a lot of people,” I told her. “It has to stop.”

She drew a shaky breath. “I am deeply sorry for my part in this.”

“Rasha, we know you didn’t condone what happened.” I kept my voice gentle. She was like one of her china teacups—elegant and beautiful, aged and fragile. “I saw my number by your phone,” I continued. “I know you would have warned me if at all possible.” I pulled the sketch of the ring out of my bag. Though I suspected I knew whose hand I’d seen wearing it, we needed to be absolutely certain. “We’re still looking for Idris, and you might be able to help.” I showed her the drawing. “Where is this ring now?”

Rasha’s mouth thinned, and her eyes hardened. “Aaron has it,” she said, vehemence thick and sharp in her voice. “I saw it on his hand when he was here. I gave it to Jade on her sixteenth birthday. He says she gave it to him last year.”

“What did he do to her?” I asked as I tucked the sketch away again.

“When she was nearly seventeen, he came here to train her and also to learn what I had to offer.” She leaned forward, mouth twisting into a sneer. “He thought he knew so much. I had been summoning for more than thirty years when he was still a babe at his mother’s tit. Thirty years , back when it was dangerous and the flows more capricious.” She sat back, shook her head. “When Jade was barely eighteen, she and Aaron announced that they were together and assumed I would simply accept it.”

Great. The young, nubile Jade was a summoner too, and her boyfriend, who grandma didn’t approve of, was also a summoner except he was sort of evil. I’d seen soap operas with less drama. As the Portal Turns?