Vengeance of the Demon (Kara Gillian 7)

“Mzatal does what he must,” he said and passed a hand over his face. “None dare shirk responsibilities in attending the flows.”

“It must be a lot harder now with him closed off,” I said with a wince.

Seretis slipped his arm from mine. “Closed?” He let out a single humorless laugh, harsh and laden with foreboding. “No, Mzatal has not closed.”

“But even before McDunn diminished me I could barely feel him,” I said in confusion. “He’d walled off except for a pinprick.”

Seretis tightened his hands to fists and lowered his head. His aura expanded as if he instinctively raised defenses, like a cat fluffing up at the bark of a dog. “A pinprick remains, and thus he is open yet.” Seretis spoke, words heavy and dark, bearing the weight of millennia of experience. “Mzatal commands resolve enough to thrust an entire sun through the span of a single hair. No, Kara Gillian, you have never known him fully closed and merged with his essence blade.” He opened his hands slowly, as if it took great force of will. “None can match Mzatal when he is thus. Formidable. Ruthless. Utterly focused.”

I tried to comprehend a fully closed Mzatal. “He had his blade at the plantation battle.” I paused. “Paul Ortiz almost died there.”

Seretis lifted his head, nodded gravely. “He put aside Khatur in the wake of Szerain’s exile. Though he reclaimed it to counter Rhyzkahl’s machinations against you, he has yet to embrace it fully again. Thus he walks a treacherous line between fury and control, distraction and focus.”

Dread settled into a sick coil in my chest. “As long as Khatur exists, Mzatal can’t be free.”

Seretis met my eyes. “When he created the essence blades, he wed his fate to them. A terrible choice.”

The coil tightened. “And now he can’t afford to set aside the blade even if he wanted to. Not with the Mraztur craziness and the demon realm falling apart. He needs the power and focus. The world needs it.”

“It is a wretched truth, Kara Gillian,” he said. “I cannot deny I cherished the respite of the past decade and a half when Khatur lay dormant.” His aura resolved to its normal level, and his voice carried a wistful nostalgia. “This last year in particular as he opened more with Idris, and with you.”

“He’s opened more with you, too,” I said.

One side of his mouth lifted. “And with Elofir as well. A welcome echo of times long past. It has been . . .” Seretis angled his head as he searched for the appropriate word. “Nice,” he finished.

“Nice is good,” I said. “But the whole world-going-to-hell thing is getting in the way.”

He exhaled. “There is no leisure for ‘nice’ amidst our current woes. With Szerain exiled, Rhyzkahl crippled, and Jesral weakened, we are hard-pressed.” Seretis brought his eyes back to mine, sad in contrast with his quick smile. “Yet I must confess, I take consolation in Rhyzkahl’s plight despite the challenges it poses.”

“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” I grinned, though his words stirred disquiet. The lords carried an unfathomable burden as an essential aspect of their existence—and had done so for thousands of years. Without their constant maintenance, the demon realm would cease to exist. How could anyone live with that much responsibility?

Bryce emerged from the house and spread an old quilt at the center of the slab. We settled on it, and Seretis’s features relaxed as he connected with the potency reservoir of the nexus.

“How long will Rhyzkahl be out of the game?” I asked.

“I never count him out,” Seretis said. “However, he is quite debilitated. He cannot tolerate sunlight, and he has ineffective connection to the flows.” He paused, unsettled. “There is no precedent for his condition. We do not know if he will ever recover.”

Without a ptarl, I added silently. There was no precedent because, in the lords’ entire history, no ptarl had ever broken th

e bond. Though Szerain and Kadir were separated from their ptarls, their bonds remained intact. “As much as I despise Rhyzkahl,” I said, “it sucks that he can’t help fix the damage he caused.”

“His absence requires—” Seretis scrambled to stand then stared down at me with shock and distrust as if I’d turned rabid. “You have connected with him.”

Bryce stood, troubled gaze shifting from Seretis to me.

“Connected?” I rose to my feet as well since I didn’t like him towering over me—especially when I didn’t know what the hell was going on. “Wait, are you talking about the dream thing?”

If anything, his apprehension increased. “Yes. A dream link.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I said defensively. “It wasn’t like the other times Rhyzkahl came to my dreams. I wasn’t asleep, and I had total control for this one. Why are you so freaked?”

Seretis shook his head, a sharp movement. “Rhyzkahl is the target with this new link.” He assessed me with narrowed eyes. “You are the initiator.”

“Huh?” I blinked, taken aback. “No, I’m not.”

“Who wove the link?” Seretis demanded. He advanced toward me, but Bryce thrust a hand between us to stop him.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded right back. As much as I liked Seretis, this confusing third-degree was getting old, fast. “I was about to go to sleep for the night, and the dream-thing just happened. I figured it was something Rhyzkahl tried to do that backfired on him.”