Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)

“This is not as it should be. What is happening?” Elinor.

“There must be another way.” Rhyzkahl.

“You wouldn’t do it unless you were confident of success.” Jill.

“Kara! Get your shoes on. Time to go!” My mom.

“Believe that you’re already there.” Pellini.

“Sweetling, pay attention.” Tessa.

Somewhere in my nothingness, I remember anger.

I’m not your sweetling! I’m not—

I remember myself.

I am. I am here. I am Kara Gillian.

And I had no

intention of becoming the late Kara Gillian.

Pay attention. I opened my non-physical senses and reminded myself what it felt like to have a body, to breathe, to see. Reminded myself of the feel of stone beneath me.

The stone of the column. I’d been on top reaching for the gimkrah and lost my balance . . .

Realization slammed home. The vision of the gimkrah had lured me closer—and straight into a trap. Like the opposite of an aversion ward. Mzatal’s third layer of protection? But it had been so powerful, as if intended for me rather than attuned to me. Whatever it was, I had no intention of waiting around to die like a mouse on a glue board. Screw that.

I believed I was on solid ground, and stone chilled my palms and knees. I am here. My breath hissed through clenched teeth. Shadows flickered. Where there were shadows, there was light. I commanded the light to intensify, and it obeyed.

There was still blackness everywhere, but instead of the void’s nothingness, it was that of a dimly lit obsidian chamber no larger than my living room. A scattering of blue-white sigils twinkled on the high ceiling, giving an impression of the openness of a night sky. The only furnishing was a black glass pedestal topped by a matching basin. Mzatal’s signature frequency permeated everything, like a familiar and comforting scent.

“Well, aren’t you a clever girl.” Zack.

Except I knew it wasn’t Zack.

I scrambled to my feet and peered into the gloom for Xharbek. “Can’t you come up with your own persona?”

“Is this more to your liking?” A lanky man with short, nearly colorless hair appeared beside the basin. Carl the morgue tech.

“Not really,” I said. “But it might look better if you were a few billion miles from here. Let’s try it and see.”

He laughed—a disturbing sound, especially coming from the customarily dour Carl. “I wouldn’t want to miss the entertainment.” He passed his hand over the basin, and an image of the gimkrah appeared above it.

“You lured me into the trap,” I said.

“I only tweaked Mzatal’s wards. You were the one who reached.”

For the bait Xharbek had dangled, damn it. “Fine. Whatever. All my fault. Why the trap?”

He waved away the gimkrah hologram. “It seemed the easiest solution.”

“It must really burn your bacon that you have to resort to a namby-pamby void trap.” I made a tsking sound. “Here you are, a big bad demahnk, desperate to take me out of the game, but your demahnk constraints prevent you from acting directly unless you want to end up shredded into a billion sparkly bits.”

He rewarded me with delicate applause. “Bravissima. Molto bene.”

“So instead you whisper poison, influence people, and let them do your dirty work for you.” I gave him a look of unreserved disgust. “And now, here we are. What’s your next move, hot shot?”