Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) (31 page)

I managed an entire hour of sleep before the irate cursing of a newcomer to the holding cell woke me. Mid-to-late thirties, blond and fit in a Cardio Barbie way. Expensive jeans and a rumpled silk blouse over perky and perfect fake tits. Obviously intoxicated, she continued a steady stream of high-volume cursing, even after the guard closed the door and walked off. I glared at her, but her ranting stayed aimed at the door as if she believed her words could carve through the metal. Original gems such as “Don’t you know who I am?” and “I’ll sue every one of you worthless morons!” and “I’ll have your jobs and you’ll be cleaning toilets!”— all accompanied by colorful descriptions of parentage and sexual preference.

A growl built in my throat as the tirade continued, but Angry Chick stood before I had a chance to say my piece.

“Sit your ass down and shut your hole!” Her voice cut right through the drunken cursing.

Rich Bitch swung around, tilted her head back to deliver a disparaging look. “Don’t you
dare
tell
me
what to do!” she ordered, radiating shocked insult that Angry Chick had spoken to her at all, much less with such disrespect. I knew this kind too well. Mega-Society upper class, entitled and convinced the world existed to serve her. Insulted when anyone had the unmitigated gall to treat her like an ordinary person. Most people swallowed their tongues around her type—myself included, back in the day—because every now and then the “I’ll have your job” threat was carried out.

But Angry Chick had nothing Rich Bitch could threaten. I watched with undisguised delight as she closed the distance. Rich Bitch retreated until her fit and trim ass smashed up against the cell door. Inches away, Angry Chick loomed over the wide-eyed woman.

“Sit your ass down and shut your hole,” she repeated, slowly but with no less menace.

Tickled, I watched Rich Bitch’s face shift from outrage to consternation as she realized she wasn’t the most powerful person in the room. Gulping, she hunched her shoulders then scurried to the back of the holding cell to sit beside Young Thing. Angry Chick gave me a satisfied nod as if to say
I got it covered
then resumed her seat. Bemused, I returned the slight nod. Apparently I’d scored a follower. Maybe Angry Chick could be my lieutenant if I ended up staying here for any length of time.

A trustee brought in terrible bologna sandwiches and weak lemonade along with scratchy blankets for each of us. I let Angry Chick have my blanket to use as a pillow. She deserved it.

I ate my lousy sandwich, leaned my head back and closed my eyes once more, but sleep evaded me. My earlier nap had taken the edge off my exhaustion, and worry and tension wound through my thoughts. The women in this holding cell ran the gamut of social classes, as did the women and men enslaved in the demon realm. Amaryllis Castlebrook had been targeted because no one would miss her for a couple of days. What of the others? The captives deserved to go home if they wished, regardless of their backgrounds or how well—or not—they were treated by their captors.

Rhyzkahl was the kingpin on the demon side of the human trafficking. A grim smile tugged at my mouth. I had something he wanted. Perhaps I had enough leverage for what
I
wanted.

Cautious, I relaxed my mind and recalled the feeling of the dream state visit, as familiar and effortless as if I’d done it a million times. I felt him sleeping, willed myself into his presence.

A terrace of white demon marble shimmered and solidified around me. Beyond the stone balustrade, bright moonlight washed the turquoise sea far below the cliffs, and the leaves of Rhyzkahl’s grove glimmered emerald and amethyst a hundred paces away. I’d suspected, and Seretis had confirmed: This was the true demon realm, and in the dreamstate I saw and experienced it like an interactive remote viewing.

My breath caught as the arcane whispered through me, and glints of potency flows greeted me like long lost friends. Barely perceptible, yet I drank it in like licking morning dew off leaves to slake my thirst.

Rhyzkahl sprawled face down on a chaise lounge, an overturned goblet on the tiles beside his dangling hand. A silky white shift hugged the contours of his back, plastered by sweat. Ugh, he’d slept with my
aunt!
Though I dearly wished to confront him about that particular liaison, I restrained the impulse. I wasn’t sure if he knew about Idris’s parentage, and no way did I want to give him that info. Besides, I already had an agenda in mind.

“Hey, turdbucket!” I gave the couch a hard kick. “Wake up!”

Groaning, he opened his eyes. “Kara,” he said, voice thick.

I angled my head. “You feeling any better, puddingkins?”

He pushed himself up to sit, movements unsteady. Pain still creased his features, and though he appeared less hollow than before, it might have simply been a trick of the moonlight. Blinking heavily, he reached toward me as if to determine whether I was a dream or a
dream
. I allowed his fingers to brush my forearm before I backed away.

“Oh no, pookie bear,” I said with a fierce smile. “You’re going to have to pay for more of that.”

“Pay?” He leaned back into the pillows, brows knitted in confusion. “What do you mean, pay?”

Folding my arms over my chest, I regarded him. “I want the captives back.”

Though debilitated, he still managed a Rhyzkahl-frown. “What captives?”

My smile turned to ice. “You play stupid with me, I’ll leave and never come back.”

His frown vanished. “No. Stay.” He licked dry lips. “What do you want . . . specifically?”

I paced beside the balustrade, trailed my fingers over the ancient white stone as I took a moment to consider my words. “The people kidnapped on Earth and brought here against their will,” I said. “I want them sent to Mzatal to be returned home if they so desire—which
he
will determine.”

“What do you offer in exchange?” he asked, wary.

I gave him a sweet smile. “Break your nose again?”

Rhyzkahl shifted in the cushions. “If this is a serious proposition then there must be serious terms.” He watched me, eyes not as glazed as during my last visit though they still lacked their usual keen focus. “You care about these humans. Strike a true agreement, and you may recover them. Word games will not serve you.”

Don’t forget who you’re dealing with
, I reminded myself. The demonic lords were, for all intents and purposes, demigods. Even dazed and feeling like shit, Rhyzkahl still possessed millennia of experience in bargains, negotiations, agreements—and backstabbing.

“Very well,” I said. “Let’s hammer out details.”

“Closer,” he said, beckoning with one hand.

My mouth pursed in distrust. I knew from the first dream visit that my proximity gave him clarity and relief. I took a single step toward him, and he shuddered like a jonesing junkie at the sight of a syringe of heroin.

“You want the captives,” he said. “Release the syraza, I release one human.”

I laughed. “No. That’s not going to happen. Eilahn stays with me.” It spoke volumes that he named her as his first negotiation point. As long as she remained on Earth, she drained potency from him. He
needed
to be free of the liability. Gee, too fucking bad. No way would I use Eilahn as a pawn.

“Two,” he said through gritted teeth. “Release her for two.”

“The trade of Eilahn is
not
on the table,” I said flatly.

“Then you have no great desire for the release of these humans,” he said, lifting one pale eyebrow.

He was going to play
that
lame-ass card? My shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I guess we have nothing more to discuss,” I said and thinned the dreamscape slightly as if about to leave.

His eyes widened. “Do not go!”

Yep, called that bluff. I held back a fist pump of triumph. “Why?”

“You know why.” Desperation shivered through his words. “I . . . am better able to touch the flows.”

Touch the flows.
I understood his desperation. Zack had diminished Rhyzkahl’s existence when he broke the bond. For me, even the whisper-touch of the arcane in the dreamscape offered immeasurable comfort. Far worse for him, being near severed from the flows that had been integral to his life for millennia—and without Zack to support and guide him. I empathized with his plight, but it didn’t mean I felt sorry for him.

“Why should I care if you can touch the arcane or not?” I returned the dreamscape to its full texture and took another small step closer. “You’re not exactly my favorite person.”

Frustration coupled with annoyance flashed across his face. “I do not expect you to
care
,” he said. “You brought terms to the table.”

Good. Having to actually give a shit would be as much of a deal breaker as trading Eilahn. “All right,” I said with a lift of my chin. “Five minutes of basking in my glorious presence for each captive released.”

“Thirty.”

“Ha! Ten.”

“Ten . . .” His eyes dropped to my upper chest, “in contact with my sigil.”

Pulse pounding, I recoiled and pressed my hand over the scar—his mark—at the top of my sternum. “No!”

He lounged back in the pillows, pose non-threatening. “Seven, in contact with my sigil.”

Fuck. It was clear he knew how very much I wanted the captives released. But what benefit would touching the scar offer him? It wasn’t activated—only the twelfth held that dubious honor—yet at the same time I knew that none of the scars were fully quiescent. Or at least they hadn’t been before I lost the arcane.

“Two,” I said, though my stomach lurched.

“Five,” he said, whisper-soft.

Throat dry, I nodded. “Five. Captives to be released to Mzatal within one day of . . . completion of my side of the bargain.”

“Agree—”

“No!” I said, heart thundering. “I wasn’t finished.” A lie, but I’d caught a glint of triumph in his eyes that left me cold. What had I missed? Maybe I should withdraw from the dream to regroup and—

That was it! The dream.

“Far too hasty,” I said. “You will release captives to Mzatal within one day of completion of my side of the bargain. This agreement includes all human captives in the demon realm. One captive for each five minutes you have in contact with the sigil scar.
In dreamspace.
Not physically.”

His jaw tightened, which was all I needed to confirm I’d caught my error. Sick relief surged through me at the insanely close call. No way would I ever comply with a physical encounter, and with that gaping loophole the captives would never have been released—not without renegotiation from a weaker position. I’d almost betrayed myself with words as Seretis had warned.

“I do not have access to all captives,” he said.

I didn’t doubt it. In his condition, he’d be hard pressed to recover captives from the likes of Amkir or Jesral. But I’d take what I could get. “Not my problem. It means you have less time with this.” I pulled my collar down to show the sigil scar, willed it to glow blue in his dream.

He dropped his head back onto the cushions, looking truly weary and beat down. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Terms as stated before.”

“Agreed,” he said.

I still wasn’t certain I’d covered all possible loopholes, but as long as it stayed in dreamspace nothing bad could happen. To me, at least. “Agreed,” I said. “Do you have a captive here ready to release within a day?”

“Yes. Two.” He sat up straighter, eyes hungry. “Come close.”

I stepped back, came up against the balustrade. “You want it, you come to me.” No reason to make this easy for him and, dreamspace or not, I didn’t like the idea of sitting on the chaise lounge with him one little bit.

Rhyzkahl hauled himself to his feet, lurched toward me. I turned away and gripped the balustrade.
I control this
, I told myself.
I can end it whenever I choose.
He moved in close behind me, one hand finding support on the stone beside mine while the other snaked over my shoulder to flatten against his scar on my chest.

My arm twitched with the reflexive urge to drive my elbow into his gut, yet that desire faltered as a wave of arcane flowed through me. I sucked in a breath, aware that Rhyzkahl did the same. Othersight leaped to life, and my perception of flows and sigils and warding sprang into vivid clarity. “How? I don’t—”

A deafening
riiiiip
drowned out my words and thoughts. High between the terrace and the grove, blazing light as if from a hundred lurid sunsets poured through a gash in the dimensional fabric. An anomaly. A
huge
one. My heart slammed in terror and awe at the sight. “We have to do something!” I gasped.

His breath hissed close to my ear. “We walk in dream, ghosts to the world. We cannot touch it.
I
cannot touch it even waking.” Essence-deep frustration infused his words.

Demons bellowed and squawked from the walls of the palace. The leaves of the grove rippled with potency, flaring like glowing gemstones.

Mzatal appeared on the grounds below the terrace, teleported there by his ptarl, Ilana. Immediately, he called his essence blade, Khatur, to his hand and began to dance the shikvihr. Ilana launched herself into the air. More demonic lords blinked in with their demahnk ptarl. Amkir, Vahl, and Vrizaar, and seconds later Rayst, Seretis, and Elofir. No sign of Jesral or Kadir. Mzatal shouted directions, orders that I felt in my essence more than heard. The other lords responded without hesitation to form a large circle and commence dancing their shikvihrs.