“That’s all I remember. It’s in your great great great grandmother’s memoir from the eighteen hundreds.”
“Hang on. That doesn’t fly. The ways were closed after the cataclysm in the late sixteen hundreds, up until 1908. Summonings weren’t possible.”
Jill nodded sagely. “The summoning was by her great great great great great great grandfather. She’d translated his memoir into a more readable modern English, preserving what had been passed down to her.” She stood and headed for the basement. “Be right back. You’ll probably get more out of the memoir than I did.”
“Yeah, I need to see it,” I said absently as I mulled over the implications. The Jontari bombshell made sense once I got past the shock of it. My awesome syraza bodyguard, Eilahn, had mentioned demon cities, though I’d assumed she meant within the realms of the lords. An uneasy knot formed in my belly. Why hadn’t anyone told me about the Jontari? Helori had taken me on an extended tour of the demon realm but had apparently bypassed cities and clans and warlords—including the Jagged Peaks, homeland of the rift-creating demons. And what about Mzatal? Had he kept me in the dark on purpose? It didn’t feel right, but the silence of the lords, demons, and demahnk, coupled with relevant pages missing from books, hinted at a colossal conspiracy.
Because apparently we didn’t have enough conspiracy and intrigue bullshit going on already.
Jill returned and set a battered, leather-bound book on the table. “I’m off to do the evening perimeter check with Bryce. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Text if you need me.”
“Mosquitos are out. Don’t forget the repellent.”
She snagged the bottle from the counter and headed out the back door. I dished up a plate of lasagna and plunked into a chair to eat and peruse the memoir. The relevant entry sprawled in a thin, spidery hand over ten ink-splattered pages, and dove straight into the gory details of the summoning and aftermath. With every sentence, my grip on what I thought I knew about summoning slipped. Bindings and protections four times the number I’d been taught to lay. Several sigil configurations I’d never heard of. The Jontari reyza guzzling the summoner’s blood sacrifice from a bowl before the demon exploited a flawed potency anchor and shredded the bindings. The lengthy torment of the summoner before the demon killed him. The crippling of the witness—the summoner’s daughter—and the slaughter of dozens in the household.
The story ended with the warning: When conjuring Dekkak, secure the perimeter with thirty binding layers lest the beast break free and strike you down.
It went on to say that for most Jontari, twenty bindings would do. That told me they were summoned frequently enough to have a protocol. I read the half page of general information then closed the book, cold. My training had been full of warnings of how dangerous the demons were and how it was vital to make satisfactory offerings in order to avoid horrific death by teeth and claws. But the truth was, I’d never been in real danger from any demon I’d summoned. Sure, the ritual itself could kill you if the diagram was chalked wrong or the potency not anchored, but the demons themselves had been . . . accommodating. Lord-affiliated demons. Not Jontari. I’d paid them with popcorn and books and bacon, not blood.
I felt as if Idris and Tessa and I had been playing at summoning. And I had a feeling the rest of the modern summoners were in the same boat, since no one had ever sent one of those badass warlords after me, even in the worst of times. We were being played, but why? And by whom? And how exactly did “fuck the lords” fit into it all?
The weight of the day settled heavily upon me. It was still light out, but it didn’t matter. I needed a reprieve from world chaos and screwy demon conspiracies—and sleep was the only way to get it. I texted Bryce an
d Pellini to monitor DIRT calls then shambled to my room.
Bumper, Fillion, and Squig squinted at me with sleepy eyes from the foot of the bed. I stripped off my uniform and dropped it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Yawning, I stepped over it to snag a clean t-shirt, then stopped and stared at the pile. The grove tree leaf! “Oh, no,” I moaned, heart sinking at the thought of it crushed and forgotten. I scrabbled through the pants pockets to find it but, to my amazed relief, not only was it undamaged, it gave off a soft glow, emerald on one side and amethyst on the other.
Clearly, I needed a better way to carry it. I placed it on the nightstand and dug an old cord necklace out of the bottom of my jewelry box. Maybe I could wrap embroidery floss around the stem and tie it to the cord? But not now. Wrapping and tying would have to be a tomorrow project. I flopped into bed and turned out the light.
The leaf glimmered in the darkness. I peered at it then sat up, delighted and astonished. What had been a single solid stem now formed an unbroken natural loop around the cord. A laugh welled up inside me as I slipped the necklace over my head.
I needed a little inexplicable magic in my life.
• • •
Beyond the balcony, demons wheeled and dived in an intricate aerial dance. The waterfall below cascaded to its distant pool with a comforting hiss as the sea reflected rich orange and purples of the setting sun.
Mzatal draped his arm over my shoulders and drew me to his side. “Would that we could be here now, beloved.”
I snuggled close, cradled in the luxurious warmth of his aura. “We are here, zharkat,” I said with a smile. “At least, I’m sure I am.”
“I defer to your assessment.” He laughed, a rich sound that twined around my heart and set me laughing with him. I gripped his thick braid of obsidian-black hair and tugged hard. He rewarded me with a groan that thrummed in his chest, then he caught me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, cradled his face between my hands and kissed him in the light of the dying sun. My hips rocked against his as he deepened the kiss.
A demon bellowed.
A strangely familiar woman yanked my shoulder, her eyes wide with fear.
I tumbled from Mzatal’s arms and over the balcony wall, plummeted toward rocks and sea while Elinor’s scream drowned out the roar of wind.
Heart pounding, I jerked awake. Dust motes floated lazily in early morning light that seeped around the edges of my curtains. A squirrel fussed in the tree outside my window, and the air held a whisper of coffee and biscuits.
Eerie remnants of the dream lingered. I hurried to flick on the lamp. Mzatal’s aura immersed me still, but darker, more—
I flung off the covers, grabbed shorts from the floor and yanked them on then sprinted down the hall to the kitchen window.
Mzatal was here, crouched in the center of the nexus. I ran out the door, pulse hammering with a rush of elation and apprehension, then stopped on the bottom step to drink in the sight of him.
Moisture from a humid Louisiana morning clung to the grass and slicked the porch rails, yet the surface of the nexus remained dry and unaffected. Mzatal looked dressed for battle, in close-fitting pants and shirt in a color somewhere between black and dried blood. A cord of the same color bound the thick braid that hung down his back.