Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)

A triumphant whoop went up from Alpha Squad. Mission accomplished. Our squad had scored the first demon capture, and a big ass one at that.

I was in no mood to cheer. DIRT HQ would swoop in and cart the demon off—for the good of Earth—and would then refuse to let me anywhere near him. After all, my job was complete, and there were too many agencies wanting a crack at him to waste time letting me keep a hand in. Maybe they’d find better ways to kill demons, but they’d never break him and learn the reason for the incursions—info that could give us a real edge and help end this nightmare.

Anger burned in my chest—at myself and HQ and the demons and the lords.

The winch went silent, cable taut and net tight. Breath hissed between fangs as the reyza struggled. Blood dripped from his shredded wings, staining the asphalt beneath him.

“Kho lahn ettik ai vihr?” I demanded. “What are you doing to the rifts?” At his glare, I jammed the business end of the staff against his side and thumbed the button, held it for the count of five as his body jerked. I pulled the staff away and repeated my question.

His breath rasped, but the hatred in his eyes merely shone hotter. “Our blood

. Our breath.” He let out a rage-filled bellow that made me wish I’d left the earplugs in. “Our world!”

Huh? What did that even mean? “What do the lords want?”

His pupils thinned to slits. “Mraz gah qaztahl.” The growl turned into a roar. “Mraz. Gah. Qaztahl!”

Fuck the lords. The hell? My knowledge of the demon language was far from perfect, but I knew the important things—like how to curse. “Why?” I blurted.

“Assssssk Xharbek.” His lips pulled back to expose wicked teeth.

The name thundered through me. Xharbek—demahnk counselor and ptarl to the exiled demonic lord, Szerain. Xharbek, who’d masqueraded as Carl the morgue tech and my Aunt Tessa’s boyfriend. I’d last seen him minutes after the valve explosion when he was gunning for Szerain and Zakaar—a.k.a Ryan Kristoff and Zack Garner. Even more unsettling was my suspicion that Xharbek was after Jill and Zack’s newborn daughter, Ashava, as well.

The reyza continued to twist within the net, reaching toward his head with one clawed hand. My instant of distraction over Xharbek was all he needed. “Jontari!” he roared then sank sharp claws into his neck.

“No!” I drove the spear into his side and jammed my thumb onto the button, but it made no difference. While I watched in helpless disbelief, he jerked his hand closed and ripped out his own throat.

Blood sprayed, and his body spasmed. I stumbled back, dimly aware of shouts and curses from the squad. A nauseating gurgle came from what remained of the demon’s neck as he thrashed. Then he went still, clawed fingers loosely curled around the chunk of gore.

Chapter 2

An instant of shocked quiet hung in the air as our quarry lay twitching, then curses and shouts of dismay rushed in. Light poured from a thousand fissures in his body, undeniable proof that the demon was discorporeating—to return to the demon realm or, if we were lucky, be lost in the void. I retreated another few feet, jaw clenched. The light flared, a crack rattled our eardrums, and the graphene net sagged and collapsed over a dark stain in the parking lot. And enough gold to buy a small tropical island.

But at the moment I didn’t give two shits about left-behind demon jewelry. Cursing, I flung the staff aside, then sank into a crouch and gripped my head in my hands. Frustration hammered through me with every throb of my pulse, yet guilty relief rode hard on its heels. I hated that I was still without answers, but I was glad the demon had found a way to escape capture—and that felt ten kinds of wrong. Yes, this threat was eliminated. But what about the next incursion? And why the purple hells had the demon reacted so violently to the mention of the lords? Fuck the lords? I’d certainly said the same more than once—about a few of them, at least, and not in a friendly way—but I couldn’t fathom why a demon would say so.

A hand rested on my shoulder. I looked up to see Roma, her face scrunched into a sympathetic grimace.

“Not your fault.” She gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze then released it. “Never thought one of those things would be willing to go that far to keep from being taken prisoner.”

“None of us did,” Ahmed said, eyes weary over his magnificent beard. “Sarge is right. That beast was hard core. Next one we’ll wrap up tight.” Behind him, other members of Alpha Squad murmured similar sentiments.

“Thanks, y’all,” I said, forcing a smile as I straightened and accepted various pats on the back and further gestures of comfort I didn’t deserve. Their show of support wasn’t helping my guilt, but I knew it was their own way of dealing with the disappointment. Not to mention, they were simply an awesome team—which made letting them down even harder. Why couldn’t any of this shit be black and white?

Keeping a brave face, I congratulated each one on a job well done then dismissed them with our traditional “I hope I never see you again”—our mutual prayer for a time when the squad would no longer be needed to respond to rifts and incursions. The current Alpha Squad record for the longest time without getting called out was four days.

Scott Glassman stooped to pick up the staff as the squad filed away. “Don’t worry. We’ll all back you up in the debrief.”

I groaned. I’d forgotten all about that special level of hell. “I’m not sure I can get through a debrief without ripping my own throat out.” A typical debrief involved a bunch of pricks who never saw the front lines Monday-morning-quarterbacking every decision and move we’d made. I’d agreed to fight with DIRT—hell, I’d helped found the unit—because it was the best way to defend and protect Earth. I believed in the mission, and I believed that, for the most part, the worldwide organization was making a positive difference. But the FBI special task force, Homeland Security, and a host of other Feds could go jump in a rift, as far as I was concerned.

“You’d better give me that,” I said with a scowl, gesturing to the staff. “I might need to give a few people an up close and personal demonstration of how it works.”

“Wouldn’t blame you one bit,” Scott said, wisely not handing it over. “I was only detained for ten hours of questioning. You had what, five days?”

“Six.” Sharp pain lanced through a molar, and I forced myself to relax my jaw. Six days of FBI detention after the valve explosion. Before then, I never in a million years would’ve thought I could ever find a trace of benefit from the torture ritual I endured at Rhyzkahl’s hands. But after experiencing the worst torment a body and mind could survive, the task force’s interrogation was downright friendly.

“Who’s on call?” I asked. Not everyone on the task force was a dickface.

“Clint Gallagher.”