Touch of the Demon (3 page)

I finally managed to drag my eyes away to the dozens and dozens of tassels. They were most definitely hair, and it sure as hell looked like human hair, at that. Was that part of
this ritual? Would this lord cut my hair?
Damn it, I just got it to a decent length!
I thought with a grimace. But at the same time I steeled myself for just that possibility. My fate might very well depend on my ability to roll with weird or unpleasant shit like that.
And I’d rather think that ending up with a bad haircut is the worst it could be.

“So, uh, if you’re going to cut my hair could you comb it out first?” I said, doing my best to keep my tone light and unconcerned, though my heart pounded. “I didn’t get a chance after my bath. No conditioner, and it tangles like a bitch,” I continued, harnessing the Mighty Power of the Snark to help me get through this.

Gestamar snorted. “No hair will be cut. These are of Szerain—treasured summoners and humans of his.”

A weird chill skimmed over me and down my spine. “Is that where we are? Szerain’s palace?” Only recently had I found out that my FBI agent friend Ryan Kristoff was actually the demonic lord Szerain, exiled from the demon realm with his memory stripped. I gazed at the collection of mementos and wondered what the oldest was, wondered what sort of people they came from. The demonic lords had been around for a few thousand years, and I sure as hell had trouble getting my head around it. Déjà vu washed over me again, stronger this time, as my eyes rested on one lock of reddish blond hair bound by a green ribbon.

“Yes,” the demon replied, voice seeming to lower an octave. “Szerain’s palace. In the secondary antechamber of the summoning chamber that birthed the cataclysm.”

My breath quickened as memory rose.
Sigils light the chamber with a soft glow. I lift my hair and allow Lord Sze rain to neatly slice a lock. He gives me a kind smile and a kiss on the forehead….

I tensed, and the memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me trembling and unsettled. Looking to Gestamar, I struggled for mental balance. “Cataclysm? You mean the fissures and the blasted landscape? That originated here?”

The demon peered at me, pupils narrowing to slits. “Yes. From the chamber to which you were summoned. A horrific event wrought by Szerain. And Elinor.”

I struggled to work moisture into my mouth. “What happened?”

He growled low and leaned close, breath hot upon me while I fought the urge to cower back. “Elinor lost control of a powerful ritual—an attempt at a permanent gate.” His voice was rich and slow, with ominous overtones that made my gut clench. “It thrashed out of control and she perished.” He drew out the last word in a way that sent shivers through me. “And our world broke apart, and the skies wept fire, and the seas lashed the high plains.” He tilted his head, eyes on me. “And the ways to Earth slammed shut, trapping humans here to die and severing us from your world for over two hundred years, while this world sought to emulate your vision of hell.”

The words tumbled over each other in my head. I squeezed my eyes shut as I struggled to make sense of it. My breath came in shallow pants as a ragged discord seemed to permeate his telling.

I shook my head to try and clear it. Something was wrong with his version, yet I had no idea what it could be. “How—” My voice cracked, and I tried again. “How did she die?”

Gestamar pulled back from me. “She was slain in the midst of the ritual as the gate spiraled out of control.”

I fixed my gaze upon him. “But how?” I asked, needing the answer beyond all reason. “What killed her? The gate? What?”

The thrum abruptly increased in tempo. Gestamar stood.

“Wait,” I said, pulse pounding. “Do you even know?”

In answer Gestamar bared his teeth, and in a move too swift for me to follow, pulled a thin cloth hood over my head.

My hands balled into fists at my side as he swiftly fastened the hood with arcane bindings. It wasn’t tight by any means, and it wasn’t difficult to breathe through, but the mere concept of being brought, hooded, into a ritual chamber was enough to give me a mild case of the freakouts. Okay, maybe a major case. Which, I realized a heartbeat later, was very likely this Lord Mzatal’s intent.

Anger needled me just enough to counteract the terror, though only a bit. I still had no reason to believe I was going to live through this ritual. I suddenly missed Ryan, even though I knew it had probably been less than half an hour since I’d seen him.

Since we kissed.

We’d worked together for much of the past year and had a good-friends relationship that always seemed to teeter on the edge of something more. In those unnerving seconds when both of us knew we couldn’t stop the summoning, he finally kissed me, and damn it I kissed him back. He told me he loved me, and I told him I loved him. And then I was here.

I smiled very slightly beneath the hood.
Well, if I have to die now, at least we got that shit out of the way.

Gestamar took my left upper arm. “The floor is smooth,” he said as he moved me forward and through the door. “Simply walk.”

I complied. A few heartbeats later he released me, and someone else took my right arm in a firm but not harsh grip. Not the lord, I decided. This had to be the blond summoner.

The young man slowly led me around the outer perimeter of the ritual circle. Thankfully, the hood did nothing to block my othersight. Brilliantly ignited sigils floated from knee to chest height above the floor in a circle of beautifully interlaced patterns. The only kind of ritual diagram I’d ever drawn was with chalk on the floor, but I could feel the power of this and had no doubt it was the diagram.
Looks like they do things in style in the demon realm.

A golden glow occupied the far side of the circle. Lord Mzatal. I was certain of it. Under any other circumstances I probably would have thought this was some really cool shit. Actually, I did think it was some cool shit. I simply didn’t like the idea that this particular cool shit was about to be used on
me
for who the hell knew what.

The summoner stopped in front of the golden glow, released me and stepped back. Now the lord ran his hands over me in a thorough search that reminded me of a patdown but without steering clear of any areas. Nor did he feel the need to use any “back of the hand” crap. I remained perfectly still, jaw clenched tight.

The lord finally stood from a crouch after running his hands down each of my legs. “To the center,” he said, voice even more intense than before. He said something in demon, and Gestamar gave a rumbled response in kind.

The summoner took my arm again and firmly guided me to the center of the circle, maneuvering between some of
the sigils and passing straight through others. Where they touched, my skin tingled, and some tugged at me as if reluctant to let me pass.

“On your back,” he said, voice lofty, though it held the faintest touch of a waver that made me think his entire attitude was an act. More games to keep me off balance? If so, the combined effect was certainly working.

Sweat stung my armpits and lower back as I obediently lay supine in the middle of the diagram. The lord approached and crouched, pulled the hood off. I blinked and looked up at him as I tried my damnedest to hide how very scared I was.

He lifted a hand and with a casual flick toward each of my limbs, arcanely bound me spread-eagled, much like the bas-relief. My fear spiked with the sudden restraint, and I bit back a noise of dismay. At least I wasn’t naked.

Mzatal looked down at me for a few more heartbeats, then stood and moved to the perimeter of the circle above my head and out of my sight, unless I wanted to do some serious neck-craning. Which I really didn’t. I lightly tested the bonds and confirmed that I wasn’t getting free of this until the lord released me. Instead, I focused on regulating my breathing and tried, unsuccessfully, to
not
wonder what was about to happen.

The patterns of the diagram brightened even as an intense white light flared into existence above my head. I squeezed my eyes shut as the light seemed to permeate every cell of my being, pulsing with the thrum of the room. It didn’t hurt, but it was definitely odd.

After what felt like a few minutes, Mzatal crouched beside me again. His hand trailed from my throat down my torso, in a light probing touch so clinical that it left zero impression of sexual intent. His hand paused at my belly. A slow warmth formed just beneath my skin, almost pleasant at first, but soon progressing to distinctly uncomfortable. I swallowed hard, felt his hand tighten into a fist on my stomach as the warmth shifted to a sensation not unlike a side-stitch, though about three times worse. I tensed as the stitch increased, clenching my teeth against making any sort of
shit that hurts
noise. Right when I was ready to give up on the whole being stoic thing, a flash of heat went through my abdomen and the cramping sensation vanished.

Fear coiled in my gut to replace the cramp-from-hell, and I took several ragged breaths. I badly wanted to ask what the fuck was going on, but I knew he wouldn’t answer. Mzatal’s hand slid back up to the center of my chest. Once again warmth formed under my skin, followed by a sharp cramp, but this felt much worse than the first. A whimper slid from me despite my best intentions. I kept my hands clenched into fists, shaking as the cramp deepened.

“Hold the flows as they are
without wavering
,” Mzatal said to the summoner. I heard the snarl beneath his words and had zero doubt that the blond man paled a bit. I knew I would have.

He splayed his hand hard upon my chest. I opened my eyes to look up at him, nearly regretting it as I saw the dark expression on his face. He flicked his gaze toward Gestamar, said something in demon, lip curled. I heard the name “Rhyzkahl” as he increased the pressure on my chest, and I fought back panic.

“Idris, prepare,” he said, voice uncompromising and intense. He lifted his open hand to about six inches above my sternum.

Searing heat ripped through my chest. I screamed, arching my back as I pulled against the arcane bindings. Memory flared of another searing pain driving through my chest, and I screamed again as I fought to get free so I could scrabble at whatever had caused it and save myself.

And then pain and memory were both gone, leaving only echoes behind. I collapsed back, biting my lips against sobs. Tears trickled down the side of my face, and I tried to focus on how annoying it was that I couldn’t wipe them away. Anger was better than terror and, at the moment, it wasn’t that hard to be pissed off. Except for the part where I got to kiss Ryan, this had been a colossally shitty day from start to finish, and it wasn’t even over.

Mzatal’s eyes swept over me before they returned to mine. “Now your Lord is stripped of the means to retrieve you,” he said, voice dark with a deep vehemence. He slipped the collar back onto my neck before I had time to even flinch. An ache went through me as the arcane faded to a fraction of its fullness.

He stood smoothly, and with an efficient sweep of his arm erased all the patterns and released my bindings. I
pulled my limbs in and struggled to sit up, clutching at my chest even though the pain was long gone. I hadn’t known that Rhyzkahl had a way to rescue me, but somehow, taking that hope away, even without my previous knowledge of it, cut even more cruelly. I wasn’t at all accustomed to feeling helpless and vulnerable, and I deeply despised it.

The lord stepped away from me, looked to Gestamar. “Take her.”

To my shock the demon simply scooped me up in his arms. I clung to him, weirdly relieved since I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk. Beyond all the other stresses of this gloriously shitty day, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and my body was intent on reminding me of that fact. I leaned my head on Gestamar’s chest and allowed myself to wallow in misery for awhile, as he passed out of the chamber and down several corridors. He carried me through a musty common area with tables and sofa-like seating and into a small sparse room, maybe eight foot square, furnished with only a narrow bed and a side table with a mug on it. A single tiny window high on the far wall framed a patch of dusk-blue sky and a single winking star. Unlike the room just outside, this one was completely dust-free and the blanket was clean and freshly laid on the bed. A door to the right appeared to lead to a bathroom type of place.

The demon set me down, far more gently than I expected, and guided me to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What happens now?” I asked, too exhausted to hide the quaver in my voice.

He plucked the mug from the table and pressed it into my hands. “You drink,” he rumbled.

I didn’t know squat about antiques, but I was pretty sure the mug was the real thing. Silver, lined with gold, a vertical ribbed pattern around it and leaves etched on its gracefully curved handle. It sure looked like something from Earth. The murky brown contents weren’t nearly as appealing. I lifted the mug dubiously and took a careful sip. It reminded me of liquefied unsalted stew, but with a hint of bitterness that I couldn’t identify. My starving body probably wouldn’t have cared what it tasted like, but I had to appreciate that it didn’t completely suck. I finished the contents, then placed the mug back on the table, hand shaking only slightly. “And now?”

“You sleep,” the demon replied.

“And then what?” I asked, meeting his eyes. “What’s going to happen to me? Why am I here?”

He snorted. “Because Mzatal wants you here.”

I scowled at the non-answer, turned away from him, and curled up on the bed.

“You are not dead,” he said. “Consider that, Kara Gillian.” I heard him exit and close the door.

And I did. Every moment I continued to draw breath was a moment more to figure out how to get myself out of this shit. I listened carefully but heard no sound of a bolt or lock. I didn’t figure it could be that easy, but I had to try. I sat up, padded over to the door and laid my hands flat against it. A faint buzzing sensation cued me that it was likely warded, meaning arcanely locked. I pushed the handle down slowly so as not to make noise, then gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. Damn.