Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian 6)

My heart began to pound unevenly as Mzatal turned to him. “It was an unknown implant wrought with rakkuhr,” he said without preamble.

A grave expression settled on Elofir’s face. “Where did it strike?”

“Her left shoulder,” Mzatal replied, “though it was intended for center chest. You will find it easily on assessment.” He tugged his hand over his hair in a very uncharacteristic show of anxiety.

Elofir looked to me. “With your permission?”

Throat tight, I nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course,” I said, eased ever so slightly by the courtesy.

He gestured for me to sit, then dropped to one knee before me when I did so. Immediately I had the hyper-awareness of every single ache or pain or twinge or tickle or itch now that I knew something was wrong. Nose itches? Yep, definitely a brain tumor.

He lightly touched my shoulder, then went still. To my surprise—and dismay—Mzatal began to pace.

“How have you felt since it happened?” Elofir asked, voice mild.

I gave Mzatal a worried glance. His obvious distress was starting to seriously freak me out. “I feel fine,” I told Elofir, looking back to him. “If anything, I seem to be more aware of stuff around me.”

Mzatal stopped pacing abruptly and traced the pygah sigil to calm and center himself, apparently realizing he wasn’t exactly helping me chill.

Elofir pulled his hand back and stood. He looked over at Mzatal and gave a small nod, confirming some suspicion to judge by the pain that flashed through Mzatal’s eyes.

“Y’all need to tell me what’s going on before I lose it,” I said with a tight smile.

Mzatal crouched before me and took my hands in his, ran his thumb over the cracked gem of my ring. It had been his Christmas present to me, though the rich blue stone in its intricate gold and silver setting had been whole at the time. The damage had happened when I threw the ring against the wall during a heated argument—a confrontation that had proven to be necessary to clear the air and establish trust in our relationship. I now cherished the ring with its crack as a reminder of the obstacles we’d overcome.

He drew a breath. “Rhyzkahl used the rakkuhr to create an implant that can not only self-replicate but also adapt to accomplish its purpose,” Mzatal said, voice low. “Within minutes of the initial contact, it had diffused its outer layer throughout your physical body as well as in your aura.”

I forced myself to not react, not speak, until I could process that a few times. “Like some sort of arcane virus?” I asked, a bit surprised that my voice actually sounded mostly normal.

“That is a close analogy.”

“And what is this virus meant to do?” I asked, very carefully maintaining my it’s-all-cool voice as much as possible.

Mzatal’s hands spasmed briefly on mine, betraying the depth of his wrath, though it didn’t show in any other way. “Rhyzkahl activated it with a word,” he said, eyes on mine.

I gulped. “Oh.” Rowan. He’d called me Rowan. In the horrific torture ritual, Rhyzkahl had sought—and failed—to strip my identity and create Rowan, a thrall unswervingly dedicated to his service, his tool. Looked like he hadn’t given up on his desire to own me. “That fucking son of a bitch.” I scowled to bury the sick fear. “My asshole ex-boyfriend gave me an infection.”

“Elofir and I will contain it,” Mzatal assured me. “The implant missed its intended target.” He laid his fingers on my sternum, over the scar of the first sigil Rhyzkahl had carved. “Had it struck here, it would have activated my sign, then those of the other ten lords. Once complete, you, beloved, would be gone and Rowan birthed.”

I shook my head in denial. “But I thought he couldn’t do shit with the scars after you crashed the ritual.”

He moved his hand to rest on the small of my back over the twelfth scar, the one Rhyzkahl had failed to ignite during the ritual. “The unifier sigil is inert,” he said. “It is true that he cannot use it to conjoin the others and create that which he sought, a Rowan thrall to focus the unified potency of all eleven lords.”

The place under his hand felt . . . normal. Though the other scars burned or tingled or crawled or itched at times, the twelfth seemed nothing more than grotesquely beautiful body art. “If he can’t turn me into a weaponized super Rowan, what the hell is he trying to do then?”

“Adapt and use the other sigils to create a lesser thrall,” he told me. “One dedicated to his cause. I cannot determine the full purpose, but if nothing else it serves them to destroy you and strip my zharkat from me.”

“Great. A budget Rowan.” The sick fear twisted. High tech or low end, either way I lost my identity and ceased to exist. “Can you get rid of it?” I asked tightly. “Some arcane antiviral?”

“As it is crafted of rakkuhr, I do not know a means at this time.” His aura went very dangerous and dark. “The implant must first be contained so that it cannot migrate to your chest, and then we will wring the means of its deactivation from Rhyzkahl.”

I lifted a hand to his cheek. “First contain it, then we get Idris, and then we wring it out of Rhyzkahl.”

“First you, then Idris. Yes,” he said softy, and I felt him pygah and calm. “It is best if you sleep deeply while we create the containment. Will you acquiesce?”

“I’ll never argue with naptime,” I told him lightly.

A faint smile brushed his lips, then he leaned in, kissed me, and sent me to sleep.