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But two weeks ago, Sammy had saved Bumper from a red-tailed hawk, earning him belly rubs for life from every human in the compound. Even Fuzzykins stopped harassing him. Mostly. After that, Pellini and I fashioned an arcane perimeter around the house that had so far proved successful in containing the catlets, and kept hawks, owls, and other possible kitten snatchers out.
“You’re fighting a losing battle, Sammy,” I told him even as he set Granger safely on the porch. No sooner did Sammy release her than the fluffball raced to the stairs. Without slowing, she launched herself off the edge and into the grass where two of her brothers were busy attacking a vicious and dangerous leaf. Bewildered, but determined, Sammy bounded down the steps and after them.
Fuzzykins lay sprawled in front of the door, apparently content to let Sammy run himself ragged chasing after her wild brood. I stooped to give her a head scratch which she accepted with a soft brrrmp—a far cry from the hiss-growl-scratch she’d have granted me before Angus McDunn reversed his skill-enhancing talent and stripped my arcane abilities. For reasons unknown, cats—especially Fuzzykins—hated summoners. It remained to be seen whether she’d resume hating me as I grew stronger in the arcane.
I stepped over her and let myself in then closed the door gently behind me. Cory was laid out on the opened sofa bed. Pellini sat in the armchair near him, working on his computer.
“Any change?” I asked.
Pellini closed his laptop. “He’s sleeping. I think. Otherwise, everything’s the same. No respiration, but his heart is beating.”
“We’ll find an answer,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.
“You’re goddamn right we will.” Worry darkened Pellini’s expression as he looked at Cory. “He’s been through too much to end up as a fucking bug.”
“Might end up as something else entirely,” I said quickly. “The mutations seem to run the gamut of—” I grimaced and shook my head. “Sorry. That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“It’s cool.” He gave a soft snort. “I’ll hold out hope that he turns into something kickass like a unicorn centaur.”
“You want him to have a horn growing out of his forehead?”
Pellini let out a breathy chuckle. “That’d be funny as shit. But still better than being a bug.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “I’m going to grab a quick shower then get the nexus ready. Ten minutes, tops.”
“I’ll let security know.”
• • •
I desperately wanted to let a blistering spray pound me for twenty minutes or so and maybe boil away some of my tension. Instead I settled for a mostly warm two-minute scrubdown that got the worst of the grime off. I hated to waste even that much time before starting my assessment of Cory, but physical impurities such as grime, sweat, and stench tended to interfere with tricky arcane processes, and I didn’t know what I was up against.
As I toweled off, I scowled at my reflection out of habit. Eleven intricate scars covered nearly every inch of my torso—a sigil for each of the demonic lords, and souvenirs of Rhyzkahl’s torture ritual. A twelfth sigil rested at the base of my spine, transformed by Szerain and his command of rakkuhr from an unfinished unifier scar into an enigmatic glyph, visible only to othersight. I still didn’t know his purpose for creating it other than that it was connected to Ashava.
I yanked on clothing to cover the sigils and myself, then detoured through the kitchen, grabbed a protein shake and glugged it down. Movement caught my eye through the window, and I steadied my gaze on a shirtless Rhyzkahl tracing the sigils of the shikvihr. Crap. I didn’t want him to know what was going on with Cory. I’d have to make sure the captive lord was in no position to watch us.
My back yard had changed significantly in the past two months. Mzatal had transformed the nexus slab from ordinary concrete into an obsidian-black, diamond-hard surface that shimmered with intricate patterns of silvery threads. A five-foot-wide swath of grass ringed the nexus, and beyond it was another five-foot-wide ring, where little grass remained. That outer ring was Rhyzkahl’s prison, where wards and protections—brilliantly crafted by Mzatal—kept him in place, like a planet that could neither approach nor retreat from the sun.
Though Mzatal was judge, jury, and jailer, I was the warden—not that I’d been given a choice in the matter. Still, I did my best to be fair and considerate. I’d even arranged to have a narrow house built for Rhyzkahl, one that fit perfectly along the curve of the circle, with doors at both ends to allow him to pass right through. While the center of his orbit was packed dirt, small gardens dotted the circumference, coiling vines of pumpkins and runner beans alongside neat clusters of beets and chard and tomatoes, with interspersed pockets of marigolds and cosmos, zinnias and celosia—all grown from seeds and soil that Rhyzkahl had requested. His activity fit with what I knew of the lords. They weren’t averse to hard work nor did they feel themselves too good to pitch in as needed. They had demons to help with household tasks but didn’t treat
them like servants. Plus, the lords worked their asses off to keep their planet’s potency from going out of whack. Rhyzkahl would probably go stir crazy if he couldn’t keep busy.
Gardening. Occupational therapy for a caged demon.
Purple irises flourished on both sides of his house, encouraged to bloom out of season by what little potency he could muster within the prison. On the roof lay yet another granted request: a coil of leather straps and a pile of sandbags that he used to work out.
I didn’t grant all his requests. I was proud of myself that I no longer laughed in his face when he demanded to be released.
Rhyzkahl paused between one sigil and the next, flexed his right hand several times before continuing. A deep scar crossed his palm, a remnant of the searing hilt of his essence blade, Xhan, when Mzatal struck through it in order to free me from Rhyzkahl’s torture ritual. It was a vicious wound that never fully healed, but I couldn’t muster up much sympathy—not when that ritual had left me covered in scars.
I chucked the empty shake bottle into the trash then stepped out the back door. Rhyzkahl immediately stopped the shikvihr and turned to face me, proud and aloof. Sweat glistened on his skin, but his white-blond hair flowed in glowing perfection past his shoulders, seemingly untouched by Louisiana humidity. Mzatal had left him a thread of potency—enough that he could heal himself and even regrow his hair. Now Rhyzkahl once again looked every inch the demonic lord, a far cry from the pale and stumbling figure who’d been cast out of the demon realm.
Only the incessant twitch in his scarred right hand betrayed the profound damage that wasn’t so easily healed. Each of the demonic lords had a ptarl, a demahnk advisor with whom they shared a deep bond that was both arcane and emotional. And unknown to the lords, their ptarl was also their parent. The lords relied on their ptarls for counsel, support, and focus. Yet during the battle at the Farouche Plantation, Zack/Zakaar—Rhyzkahl’s ptarl—made a radical, terrible, and necessary decision to sever the three thousand-year-old bond, an act that left them both shattered.
I stopped just beyond his orbit and met his ice blue gaze. “I need you to go into your house, please.”
He turned his back on me and began the shikvihr again.
Tension stiffened my spine. An overtired toddler would be easier to manage. Taking a deep breath, I mentally traced the calming pygah sigil. Nope, didn’t help. “Go to your house, Rhyzkahl,” I said, without adding any number of curse words that leaped to mind.
