Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)

“How long was I out?” I asked.

Pellini shoved his bottle into his rucksack and stood. “Only about ten minutes. I’d have shaken you out of it after thirty seconds if this one hadn’t reined me in.” He nodded toward Giovanni.

“Elinor would spend time thus,” Giovanni said as he scrambled to his feet. “And I would rather wake a sleeping dragon than disturb her in the grove.”

“Smart man,” I said with a smile. Though I couldn’t recall the specifics of my communion with the grove, it didn’t matter. Not yet. I turned a slow circle, taking in the trees and the peace and birdsong. I understood so much more now. I’d assumed—and even been told—that the grove was a semi-sentient organic network, cultivated by the lords for instantaneous travel. But this wasn’t just a bunch of magic trees who were all connected like a colony of aspens. The trees here and in the groves all over the planet were extensions of one fully sentient being. Even the tree in my back yard—an extension of the grove entity that I now understood had been sent to me with purpose.

Rho. The entity’s name was Rho. Peace. Harmony. Wisdom. With the worlds as screwed up as they were, I could do worse for an ally.

“Let’s go, y’all,” I said. “Meditation break’s over.”

Rho picked up my intended destination, and the grove shifted around us. A softer light, a different arrangement of white trunks, a whisper of breeze. I stood quietly for a moment, thanking Rho, then smiled to the others. “C’mon, let’s go burgle the palace!”

Chapter 25

I practically skipped up the tree tunnel, but once outside, I stumbled to a shocked halt. To the distant east, the chasm that had opened centuries ago during Elinor’s cataclysm belched greasy smoke to form a gloomy pall over the entire landscape. Szerain’s palace rose before us, not even a hundred yards away from the low valley that cradled the grove. But one entire side of the palace was now a crumbled heap, and the surrounding woods that only months before had been thick and verdant, now stood bare and burned like blackened spikes. I turned a slow circle, shuddering with grief as I took in the devastation wreaked by fire rain. Though the grove remained untouched, every other living thing in sight had been reduced to char, from the palace all the way over the rolling hills and up into the once-forested mountains.

Yet at the edge of the mountains, the pale columns of an Ekiri pavilion shimmered amidst the destruction, visible now that the shrouding forest was gone. And between the grove and the palace, a small but lofty building of honey-colored stone stood undamaged, bounded by a swath of bright green grass dotted with the blue and gold of wildflowers. A tiny measure of relief stole through me. That stone building was Szerain’s plexus, and the powerful arcane protections encompassing it meant the ancient savik, Turek, was still alive and guarding it.

A low moan of horror came from behind me. I spun to see Giovanni sink to his knees, distress carved into his face. Though, I’d warned him about the unpleasant changes to the palace, nothing could have prepared him for the scene that lay before us.

“I’m so sorry. The fire rain . . . .” My throat tightened, and I couldn’t continue.

Giovanni’s mouth worked, eyes swimming with devastation and shock as he lifted a trembling hand. “The . . . west wing?” he finally managed.

My stomach dropped as my gaze settled on the rubble. Sonofabitch. “W-we can search the rest of the palace. C’mon, we need to get moving.”

Pellini took hold of Giovanni’s arm and hauled him to his feet, then we all quick-marched up the char-covered path to the palace, every step stirring fine soot that scraped at the backs of our throats. Yet when we reached the broad doors, powerful warding barred our entry.

Dismay rose as I skimmed the complex sigils. “Maybe we can get in through the broken walls.”

Pellini thumped me on the arm. “Kara, look.”

I followed his gaze, appalled to see a luminescent puke-green cloud forming above the chasm and expanding our way. “Fire rain,” I breathed, pulse slamming. I instinctively swung my attention to the palace doors in case the wards had somehow magically disappeared, then scanned the vicinity fo

r the closest shelter. No way could we make it back to the grove in time, especially with the horrific cloud doubling in size every few seconds and racing our way as if drawn.

“The plexus!” I choked out then spurred the others into a run toward the structure. As we ran, I risked a look over my shoulder. Yellow-green fire rain hissed down, sizzling as it struck. Ahead of me, Pellini kept a good pace, surprisingly less winded than Giovanni.

“Turek!” I shouted as we neared. The plexus was heavily warded, and it would suck rotten demon guts to end up trapped outside. “Turek! It’s Kara.”

From within the plexus, a lithe, seven-foot-tall reptilian demon leaped through the doorway to land on the path in front of the steps. Turek—six-limbed and upright, resembling a black-skinned, emerald-scaled crocodile with a splash of wolf thrown in. Between us shimmered a veil of wards that might as well have been a titanium wall.

“Turek! Let us in!” I grabbed Giovanni’s arm and dragged him faster, yet Turek didn’t move. A scant dozen feet behind us, the ground smoked and popped as the caustic rain struck. We stumbled to a stop before the veil, breathing hard. A furnace of heat swept over my back. “Turek, we’re out of time here!”

The ancient savik’s purple eyes rested on each of us for a heartbeat then fixed on Giovanni. Before I could blink, the veil parted, and Turek seized him by the throat and drag-carried him toward the structure.

“No!” I leaped after them with Pellini on my heels, even as a droplets of molten death burned through the air inches behind us. The veil snapped into place with a whoosh, shielding us from the fire rain.

With two of his four hands, Turek pinned Giovanni to the plexus wall and leaned in close, saliva dripping from his toothy, elongated jaw. Carved sigils flickered to life in the honey-gold stone. Giovanni cried out in shock as Turek dug the claws of a third hand into his belly, hard enough to draw blood.

My overstressed brain finally clicked into gear. Turek had no reason to think this could be the real Giovanni. “He’s not an imposter!” I put a hand on Turek’s arm, though I knew better than to waste energy trying to pull him away. “This is Giovanni, I swear it.”

“Dahn,” Turek growled. “Giovanni Racchelli died in the cataclysm.” He spoke with a prominent guttural click-pause of his hard ‘c’ and ‘k’ sounds, giving his speech a cadence that made his English sound alien.

“She speaks truth,” Giovanni croaked through the grip on his throat. “Remember . . . remember the spring when you helped me find the midnight sparkler flowers for Elinor?”

“I forget nothing.” Turek flicked out his tongue, pitch black and sinuous, and licked Giovanni’s cheek in what I hoped was a demon version of a DNA test. “What came to pass when you gifted Elinor the blooms?”