Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian 6)

“Agreed,” Amkir snapped, clearly not happy that the countdown had already begun. “I will depart and pass my time imagining myself deeply buried in your chikdah.”

Oh, dude, did you ever say the wrong thing. Mzatal was already in a pissy mood, plus he had a few minutes to kill while we waited for Steeev.

Looked like he was going to kill more than time. Okay, maybe just damage. A lot.

“Well worth imagining,” Mzatal said, “and a pleasure you will never have.”

Amkir didn’t seem to notice that Mzatal had yet to drop the shield, and I allowed myself a silent chortle. I knew damn well Mzatal had fully intended to allow Amkir to leave—right up until the point the scowly-faced lord made his chikdah comment, a word which translated best as “cunt.”

Feeling safe for the remainder of the countdown, Amkir turned his gaze on me and licked his lips. “When you are with Rhyzkahl again, I will have my time with you, little whore.” I gave him a bored look, which served nicely to rile him up more. “You will beg for the mercy of my cock in your throat rather than all else I have planned for you,” he sneered. With a final smirk, Amkir turned to depart then froze as he realized the shield still blocked the grove entrance. He glanced over his shoulder, a hint of panic in his eyes. “Drop the barrier, Mzatal, and I will depart as agreed.”

“As it is not an attack, it is not included in our agreement,” Mzatal informed him, then narrowed his eyes. “For utter clarity, that which you speak to my zharkat, you speak to me, Amkir.” He uttered the name with dark menace. “Kara Gillian does not beg. Nor do I.” He shaped the potency already gathered, drew in more. “Two heartbeats.”

Amkir spun to face us again and hastily traced protections, but the Oh Fuck look on his face told me he knew they’d be woefully inadequate.

Moving faster than thought, Mzatal swept his hands in a complicated pattern that stripped Amkir’s weak shielding, then followed it with a dazzling blue net of potency that blanketed the hapless lord in crackling arcane bindings.

The syraza stepped back and the old reyza pulled his wings in close as Amkir gave a strangled cry and dropped to his knees. Face contorted in pain, he collapsed to his back, jerking in the glowing net. It was meant to simply hurt him and not damage him, I knew. Well, not long term damage at least. Dumbass. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he could’ve left unscathed.

Mzatal dissipated the shield over the tree tunnel. “Have you more to say to us?” he asked the downed lord. After a moment of no answer except labored gasps and choked whimpers, Mzatal released the net and inclined his head to the reyza. “Honored one, please depart with Amkir in accordance with our agreement, as you witnessed.”

The reyza rumbled assent and moved forward to scoop up the lolling Amkir. Mzatal turned away, took my hand and strode toward Steeev, who’d returned from his reconnaissance while we were occupied with Amkir.

Eilahn joined us as Steeev gave his brief report: Rhyzkahl and Jesral were already engaged in the ritual process, and Idris wasn’t the only human they were sending back to Earth. Katashi was in the ritual as well.

“We are out of time,” Mzatal said. “As soon as Amkir recovers enough, he will warn Rhyzkahl that we are coming. We must go now and stop the process.”

Steeev laid his hand on Mzatal’s shoulder even as Eilahn laid hers on mine.

“With you, Boss,” I murmured.

Mzatal brushed my cheek with his fingertips, then gave a nod to Steeev. In the next heartbeat the world dropped away, then surged back up again in a different location.

It took me a few seconds to get my bearings as we arrived, but Mzatal already had his essence blade, Khatur, in one hand as he traced glowing strike enhancements with the other. The nexus was little more than a cleared and well-trampled circle in the rainforest with eleven stones, of about my height, evenly spaced around its perimeter. Idris and Katashi crouched in the center, and filling the space between the two men and the stones were more than a dozen concentric rings of ignited, floating sigils. Like strands of colored light woven into intricate patterns, the sigils drifted from ground-level to chest height, some pulsing light to dark, and others simply shimmering. By the degree of activation, I knew the ritual was well underway.

Idris had his back to us, and though I couldn’t see any ropes or bindings, I knew there were more subtle ways in which he might be restrained. Katashi faced our way and fixed his gaze on Mzatal. The old summoner had two hands again, I noted. Mzatal had sliced one off during Katashi’s failed attempt to snatch me for the Mraztur, but obviously one of the lords had decided to grow it back. Bully for him.

On the far side of the nexus, Rhyzkahl, tall, blond, and angelically beautiful, traced completion sigils with hurried, though precise, gestures. Jesral worked feverishly beside him to direct the energies toward the center of the ritual and initiate the transfer. Jesral’s keen eyes flicked our way once, sharp features betraying only confidence. Slim and dark-haired, he reminded me of a male model, though not the hunky kind. He’d be the model wearing the purple velvet suit and slouching oh-so-perfectly in a wingback chair while an unlit cigarette dangled from between two fingers.

I sank into my connection with Mzatal, felt his purpose then captured and wove elusive strands from the flows to enhance his tracings with my personal touches. But my eyes were on Idris. As though feeling our presence, he glanced back over his shoulder, and my heart lurched at the haunted look on his face as he met my eyes.

A translucent silver-blue cylinder of power snapped into existence around Idris and Katashi—Mzatal’s creation, designed to delay the ritual for as long as possible. Without his intervention it would finalize in a matter of seconds, sending both Idris and Katashi to who-the-hell-knew-where on Earth.

Mzatal’s intention flowed clearly through our connection. Disrupt the ritual without damaging Idris. I quickly traced sigils to augment his containment cylinder as I searched for weak spots in the sigil patterns.

There. Between the second and third rings, a link wavered as though its bounding sigils had been hastily set. I “showed” Mzatal the weakness, but to my dismay I realized he couldn’t exploit it. He needed all of his focus and power to hold the shield that slowed the ritual, and had nothing to spare to make a strike.

I felt his frustration mingle with mine as the ritual built to a throbbing crescendo. “Five heartbeats, zharkat,” he said through gritted teeth. Cursing, I desperately sought a solution. Four. I had my not-a-Glock, but that wouldn’t be enough to even put a ripple in it. It would be like using paintballs to try and stop a charging crack addict.

Three. Beside me Mzatal trembled with the stress of holding the shield. Beyond the diagram Rhyzkahl bared his teeth in a triumphant smile, lifted his blade and gave Mzatal a mocking salute.

That was it. I knew a way to exploit the weakness.

Two. The rings flared, and there was no time left to consult with Mzatal. With his attention so intensely focused on holding Idris, he’d never be able to read my intention in time to respond.

I slammed closed my connection to the grove, jerked my hand into the air and called Szerain’s essence blade to me.

Vsuhl coalesced in my hand for the first time since I’d nearly caused a second cataclysm during its retrieval. During that ritual my grove power had melded with the blade’s with