But this creature had said his name was Rhyzkahl. Had I mispronounced “Rysehl”? Somehow garbled the word? I cast my mind back over the summoning, the ritual, over and over until it was all little more than a jumbled blur. I thought I said it right. The names are close, but not that close.

I felt as if someone had pulled the floor out from under me. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I was good at this. I shuddered and scrubbed at my face, struggling to push away the aching doubt.

But forcing myself to stop thinking about the summoning only shifted my thoughts to the other elephant looming in the room. Oh, fucking shit, I silently wailed, why the fuck did I fuck him?

I couldn’t even give myself the “easy” out and blame it on his compulsion of me. I knew that he was capable of doing so, since I’d managed to figure it out and call him on it. But then he gave me his word…. And a demon’s word was inviolate. No, I’d just been incredibly needy and pathetic.

I grimaced and turned on the water, cupping it in my hands and splashing it onto my face. I scrubbed away the grit in my eyes, keeping the water deliberately cold to try to shock myself back to a reality I could understand and accept.

I sighed and reached for the towel. Nope, still the same haggard and confused face staring back at me in the mirror. I’d already taken a hot shower, with water as close to scalding as my water heater would give me, seeking to sear the memory of the night away.

But you don’t want to forget, I accused myself. You enjoyed it.

I sighed and straightened. And that was the truth. That had been some seriously incredible sex. No doubt. Best. Sex. Ever.

Which circled my thoughts back to: Why me? Why seduce me? Was sex that hard to come by in the other spheres? That made no sense. He wanted something from me. An alliance? A summoner of his own? It was possible, I supposed. I’d heard of summoners who allied with particular demons, though such alliances were unpredictable and fraught with danger.

I had to assume that Rhyzkahl was some sort of demon that I’d never heard of before. My portal had opened into the demon realm—I felt reasonably confident of that. The demons I knew were creatures of arcane power, inhabitants of one of the many other planes of existence and one of the few that was accessible from this plane with the proper forms and rituals.

There were twelve varieties, or levels, of demons that could be summoned, or so I had been taught. When I had first begun my training as a summoner, I started with simple summonings of zrila—first-level demons not much larger than a cat, though with reptilian bodies and six legs. Limited intelligence and easily controlled. Ten years later I had progressed to the twelfth level: reyza. And not once during that time had I seen or heard of anything like Rhyzkahl. He was obviously a creature of great power—that much was clear by how easily he’d shattered the bindings and wardings. But I had no idea what he was or what his place was in the hierarchy of the demons.

My mind kept going back to what he’d said to me. Call me whenever you need me. Call him? Summon him? Who was he to say such a thing? And how was I supposed to do that when I didn’t know how I’d done it in the first place?

I walked out to the living room and fired up my computer, then pulled up a search engine. It was a long shot, but I’d struck gold with the Internet before. There were no formal organizations or cabals of summoners that I knew of, but there were a few message boards—the type that catered to the “paranormal nutjob” faction—that were sometimes used to exchange information between arcane practitioners. A good 99.9 percent of the posts were incredibly fantastical piles of bullshit, from people who claimed to be “masters” of arcane power. But every now and then a nugget of promising information could be unearthed from someone who actually knew what the hell they were talking about.

No such luck this time, though. I ran searches with every possible spelling variation of Rhyzkahl, but the only hit I came up with was with Rhizko—which turned out to be the user name for a pudgy and pasty online gamer of indeterminate gender.

I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my eyes. “Shit.” The two hours of fitful tossing that had preceded my alarm going off had not done much for my energy level or mental sharpness. “Shit,” I said again for good measure, then stood. It was barely seven a.m., and the autopsy on the victim from the wastewater plant wasn’t until noon. I had time to seek answers from a far more reliable source.

I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt from a Miami-Dade PD training seminar, shoved my hair up into a ponytail, and jabbed some mascara at my eyelashes as a pitiful concession to makeup. After the autopsy I would come back and change into something decent. It was sorely tempting to just bury myself in work, push all of this crap to the back of my mind. That was the way I usually dealt with stress in my life.

But I already knew that this was one problem I wouldn’t be able to put aside until later. I needed to know, and since the Internet had failed me, the next best hope was that my aunt would have some useful information in the library at her house.

Now I just had to figure out how to explain to my aunt how I’d screwed up such a simple summoning.

Aunt Tessa’s house was on the lakefront, a century-old two-story with gleaming white paint and lovely blue gingerbread molding adorning the porch. Most of the equally lovely old houses in this area had been restored and were now tourist attractions. Many offered tours. My aunt’s was not one of them.

There was a cheerful Welcome! sign on the door—a standing joke, since my aunt encouraged visitors about as much as I did. I avoided people by living in the middle of nowhere, and my aunt did so by maintaining carefully crafted wards and protections that were set around her house. Unless a person was invited or had significant need to be there, most who came to Tessa’s house remembered something more pressing that needed to be done or decided that the visit could be put off until another day.

I once asked her why she bothered with the welcome sign at all. She replied that she didn’t want people to think her too odd or standoffish, so having a welcome sign on the door would mollify people’s attitudes toward her.

I had learned long ago that the best way to deal with that type of rationalization from my aunt was to just nod and change the subject.

I could feel the faint prickle of the wards as I entered her house, a sensation like passing through an invisible beaded curtain. I wiped my feet automatically, though I doubted that my shoes were dirty. But Aunt Tessa kept her house clean enough to be a showplace, even if she never allowed anyone inside except me. She’d restored the house by herself right after I started with the PD, and it still looked just as perfect as the day she’d finished—gleaming hardwood floors, elegant flowered wallpaper, and exquisite crown molding—all immaculate and flawless.

“Aunt Tessa?” I called.

“Front room, sweets!”

I stepped around the corner to see my aunt ensconced with a book upon an antique love seat. Sitting lotus-style. How a woman in her late forties could be limber enough to sit like that was beyond me, but Aunt Tessa was remarkable in numerous ways beyond her flexibility.

To most in the community, Tessa Pazhel was the mildly eccentric and extremely unpredictable woman who ran the natural-food store downtown. Tessa dressed the part, too, wearing brightly colored skirts and clashing shirts in eye-searing tones one day and then muted khakis and combat boots the next. Wild kinky blond hair sprang out from Tessa’s head, the polar opposite of my painfully straight brown hair. Tessa was whippet-thin, while I had to fight tooth and nail for every ounce of fat loss. The only feature we had in common was our gray eyes.

I was the spitting image of my mother—Tessa’s sister. At least that’s what I’d been told and shown in pictures. My own memories of my mother were dim at best.

Today my aunt was dressed in a mid-calf-length blue velvet dress, with heavy silver chains draped around her waist and black suede boots on her feet. She lifted her eyes from her book and peered at me as I sat in the chair next to her.

“Well, you’re alive,” she said without preamble, setting her book aside. “Which means that if you summoned Kehlirik it didn’t go too horrendously wrong.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she looked into my face. “But you sure don’t look very happy about a successful summoning.”

Tags: Diana Rowland Kara Gillian Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net