Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian 6)

He gave me a sly look. “I already ordered a laptop and some other stuff,” he told me. “It’ll all be here tomorrow.” He paused, fidgeted. “I need a few local things today though, if it’s not too much trouble. I can pay you back.”

“Write it down, and I’ll get the elves to take care of it,” I told him.

A smile bloomed on his face. “Wow, thanks!” He shifted the tablet from under his arm and started tapping on it one-handed, so fast I had a hard time picturing him actually typing anything that made sense. “You want me to help with the Idris stuff?” he asked. “The lord told me about him. I figure I can do some work on that, right?”

My phone dinged, and I fished it from my pocket. “Um, yeah. Hang on.” I checked the message, blinked. His shopping list—composed and sent to me in about ten seconds flat. I smothered a laugh. Chai tea, Krunch ’n Krackle snacks, and pistachios. All absolutely necessary for deep computer work, I was certain. I started to ask him how he knew my number, then decided against it. I had a feeling that would probably earn me a withering look.

I sent the message on to Zack, with a “please buy” added. “That’s right,” I told Paul. “We’re looking for Idris Palatino. Anything you can find on him would rock.” I spelled the name and gave him Idris’s date of birth.

Paul tapped on the tablet. “What sort of info you want? Sightings? That sort of thing?”

“Anything you can get. Sightings, rumors, mentions, you name it, especially within the last week. We don’t know where he is other than what you heard me tell Mzatal in the basement. He called me night before last from a stolen cell phone, heading northwest out of Austin. Farouche is involved, but we don’t know to what degree. We know Isumo Katashi’s organization is in on it. Tsuneo Oshiro. Tito—I don’t remember his last name.”

Paul looked up at me. “Tsuneo. That’s the name of the guy who ran away at the warehouse?”

“That’s right,” I said. “And Tito was the one Mzatal killed.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, then wandered down the hall, busily tapping on the tablet.

I waited until Paul was back in the office before I turned to Bryce. “Time to shift gears a bit,” I said. “You in the mood from some mild interrogation?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve beatings with rubber hoses, I’m game,” he replied with an easy smile.

“No beatings,” I said with a chuckle. “Not from me at least.” I took a deep breath. “But I need to know if the name Tracy Gordon rings a bell. Or you might have known him as Raymo

nd Bergeron.”

A frown puckered his forehead. “I don’t think I know either name. Why?”

“Tracy was a summoner, killed about six months ago,” I told him. “Your name is in one of his journals along with a bunch of others.”

“Why would a summoner have my name?” Bryce asked, perplexed. “And yes, I know that’s precisely what you’re asking me.” He shook his head. “Sorry, but I don’t have a clue.”

So much for my fantasy of uncovering a simple explanation. I felt Mzatal’s mental touch, and I put on hold any thoughts of other avenues to take with the journal information. “We’ll figure it out later,” I said with a tinge of regret. “I’m going out to do some work with Mzatal, and I don’t know how long it will take. My best friend Jill may come by at some point.” I smiled. “She’s way pregnant. Can’t miss her. Y’all help yourself to anything in the kitchen, and don’t forget the game console.”

“Got it covered,” he said with a sharp nod.

I gave him a parting smile and headed toward the back.

Chapter 22

Mzatal stood on the sweet spot in the grass, hands behind his back and eyes closed in a familiar stance of focused concentration. He opened his eyes as I approached. “Zharkat. I am ready to begin.”

“Tell me what I need to do.”

He took my hand, drew me to him. Carefully and patiently, he explained the process and showed me the needed sigils for the diagram, and for the rest of the afternoon we prepared the unassuming patch of grass. For the first hour we did little else but clear residue and stabilize the power of the confluence, like pressure washing grease-encrusted drainage pipes. After that came the foundation anchors sunk deep, and meticulously woven flows. Then dozens upon dozens of rings of sigils, with every link checked and double-checked. Jekki kept us amply supplied with food and tunjen, and after more than four hours of work—and a quick potty break for me—we felt ourselves ready to begin the ritual itself.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as we returned to the confluence, and I glanced up at the sky. Clouds hid the sun, and little gusts of wind whipped high branches. As I lowered my gaze, I caught sight of Jill at the kitchen window, watching with avid curiosity though I doubted she could see any of the sigils. We probably looked rather weird as we walked around in seemingly random circles in my back yard.

Jill grinned and waved at me, but then pointed toward Mzatal and made a point of fanning herself. I grinned right back at her, ridiculously pleased that she’d made it over to see my mega-hot boyfriend. Wait ’til she sees him up close, I thought, chuckling low as I returned my attention to my work.

While I checked the sigils around the perimeter, Mzatal walked spirals, a slight frown on his face. Paul emerged from the house, tablet in hand, looked out to us then down at the tablet. Mzatal’s frown deepened, and he stopped, eyes on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I am unable to locate the virtual center.” Frustration rolled from him like a slow tumble of boulders. “All is shifting, and I need the precise alignment.”

“One step back and one to the right,” Paul said, eyes glued to the tablet as he crossed the grass toward us and stopped about ten feet away.