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atched him go to his knees and scrabble at the hilt. I’d taken one opponent out of the game, and dying on Earth simply meant he’d most likely return to the demon realm.
Except . . . this didn’t look like the other times I’d seen demons die here. There was no light spilling through the wound, no ripping crack or the smell of ozone and sulfur.
Pyrenth was bleeding.
Sick horror formed a knot in my gut. I moved forward and seized Vsuhl’s hilt. The blade howled in protest as I yanked it free, and it seemed to require ten times the effort it should have. Yet then I could only stare for several eternal seconds at the blood that spilled down Pyrenth’s broad chest.
“I don’t understand,” I croaked out. I dropped my eyes to the blade in my hand, felt and heard it urge more more more, then returned my gaze to Pyrenth. He sagged to his side, his expression calm, relaxed. He might have looked peaceful if not for the blood that bubbled from his mouth and darkened his fangs.
“Well . . . played,” Pyrenth breathed.
The fighting continued around me as I struggled to understand. I felt Mzatal’s focus on me, his insistence that I banish Vsuhl. Felt him take a strike for his distraction. I dimly noted that another concussion rocked the lawn, though not as severe as the first. Paul was shouting something in my earpiece, and it took me several seconds to comprehend the words.
“Kara! Mzatal says to send the blade away! Send the blade away! Jesral!”
I jerked my gaze up and saw Jesral’s eyes locked on the blade and me. Quickly, I banished the blade, and briefly reveled in the look of rage that came over him before I returned my attention to Pyrenth.
“I don’t understand,” I repeated, almost desperately. “I only meant to send you back to the demon realm!”
His lips pulled back from his teeth in a reyza smile. “Vsuhl. Takes all. Gives no mercy,” he rumbled, so low I doubted anyone else could hear him.
“Yaghir tahn,” I said, throat clogging. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Kahl dar,” he said. “Juntek lakuna jaik. Srah lorvahlo. Haakir.”
I understood him. Or at least the basic meaning—perhaps because of the whisper of the grove I felt through the open node. All is well. I finished with honor. Well played. Then he drew a deeper breath, let it out, and was still.
Guilt and sorrow clawed at me, sharpened by a scalding wash of Rhyzkahl’s anger over the death of his reyza. This was not at all how I wanted revenge against Rhyzkahl. Never like this. I dragged a hand over my face, and it came away wet with tears.
“Kara!” Paul shouted though the earpiece.
I forced myself back to the present. Rhyzkahl and Mzatal were deeply engaged in arcane battle. Jesral took a step toward me, then staggered back as Mzatal cast a heavy strike his way.
The ground shook again. I spun to see Idris stagger to his feet, swaying, eyes still seeming somewhat unfocused. Baring my teeth, I channeled my guilt into rage that I’d been forced into murdering Pyrenth. Yet with the rage came hurt and disappointment with Mzatal. Why didn’t he warn me? If he’d given me any training with the blade, like I’d asked him to, this wouldn’t have happened.
I seized the front of Idris’s shirt. “Come on!” I snarled, then had to yank him off balance as he resisted, disoriented enough that even Farouche’s mild influence had him fighting me. “Idris. It’s me, Kara. We’re going to Mzatal.”
He took a ragged breath and stopped pulling at my hand. “Kara! I’m . . . okay,” he gasped even though clearly he wasn’t. Wild confusion filled his eyes, and he shook from the arcane and physical damage from the blast.
“Sure you are, big guy,” I said, gritted my teeth, and ran-dragged him back toward Mzatal. Yet my thoughts kept circling back to Pyrenth. I’d killed a sentient creature. All these years of being a cop, and this was my first true kill.
But I had no choice, I realized with sick certainty. Training with the blade wouldn’t have changed my choice in that instant. No way could I have reached my gun quickly enough, and the chances of stopping him with a .32 were slim. If I hadn’t used Vsuhl on Pyrenth, Idris and I would be prisoners of the Mraztur again. Yet knowing it was justified didn’t ease the guilt one bit.
The node whined. “Three lords, Kara! Another just came through!” Paul’s voice, shot through with static and agitation.
“Three!” Shit. “Black hair or blond?” I snapped, too focused on keeping Idris upright and moving to look for myself.
“Black.”
“That’s Amkir,” I replied through gritted teeth as Idris began to balk again. “The King of the Assholes.”
“Gotcha, Kara. Bryce is near the Ops building and moving your way to help you.”
Idris abruptly gave a low cry and yanked back hard against my grasp. Cursing, I swept his leg and dumped him to the ground, then dropped down with a knee on his chest. He gave a whoosh of expelled air as I’d intended, and as he gasped for new breath I seized his arm and rolled him face down then held him in an arm-lock as I looked for Bryce.
To my relief, he was almost to me. He quickly closed the distance, scanning for threats as he pulled zip-ties from his belt and efficiently bound Idris’s wrists and ankles. A potency-burn marked the left side of Bryce’s face—an angry stripe of raw flesh from his temple to his jaw line. Othersight revealed a vicious little coil of potency clinging like napalm to his cheek.
“Hold still,” I ordered, then unwound and dispelled the thing.
