Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)

Idris’s face was a stone mask, but he took note of the charred grass, the rift belching magenta flames, and the unfamiliar demons. I knew damn well he was aware of my presence, but he didn’t so much as glance my way.

As he approached the edge of Rhyzkahl’s prison, he slowed. For a brief moment I wondered if Rhyzkahl would simply stay in his tent and refuse to entertain Idris’s desire for a confrontation. The whisper of uncertainty that crossed Idris’s face told me he wondered the same thing. Though a huge part of me hoped for a nice absence of drama, I knew Idris would only be moodier as a result.

Idris stopped half a dozen feet from the perimeter. As if on cue, the flap on the tent flipped open. I came to a halt, watching and waiting.

Rhyzkahl stepped out and straightened with feline grace. Making an entrance. He gifted Idris with the barest of nods then swept his gaze over the back yard as if surveying his sovereign domain. The message was crystal clear: Idris’s presence had been duly noted, and it was Rhyzkahl’s decision whether to grant him an audience. It was an infuriatingly lordly tactic, yet I had to silently applaud Rhyzkahl for leveling the playing field.

Idris twitched with tension, eyes glaring hatred. But Rhyzkahl wasn’t toying with him or making him wait just for giggles. He was making a point, subtle though it was, and once he finished his calculated perusal of his surroundings, he made his way around the circle to stand before Idris.

Seeing them together like this, no one could ever doubt a strong familial connection. This was the first time the two had looked upon each other with the knowledge that they were father and son, and I watched as each took in the similarities, the echoes of features seen in the mirror.

“Let’s get one thing straight right now,” Idris said through bared teeth. “You aren’t my father. Jerome Palatino, the man who raised me, has that honor.”

Rhyzkahl inclined his head. “Truly he deserves it. He reared a fine young man. It pleases me to know that my blood courses through your veins.”

Translation: Yeah, he raised you, but you still came from me, kiddo.

A flush swept up Idris’s neck. “Your blood? You and the Mraztur have spilled my family’s blood. My sister was tortured and murdered! I was forced to watch. Because of you. Fuck your blood!”

“I knew nothing of the plan to sacrifice your sister,” Rhyzkahl said, unruffled. “I assure you, I would never have condoned or allowed it.”

Idris shifted closer, like a tiger positioning to pounce. “Why?” he asked. A strange smile tightened his mouth. “Tell me why you wouldn’t have condoned my sister’s murder.”

Rhyzkahl gave a slow nod, as if in acceptance. “I could tell you that I would not have condoned or allowed her death because it was needless torment. A waste of a beautiful life. A tragedy visited upon all who hold her dear.” He met Idris’s eyes. “But you already know that to be false. You asked this question, despite knowing my true answer, because you wish to hear it from my lips. You hunger for me to speak it aloud and thus stoke your hatred and fuel your rage in the hopes that they will burn fiercely enough to illuminate the void that is your grief.”

Idris recoiled, face paling.

“Here is my true answer, then,” Rhyzkahl continued with barely a pause. “My gift to you, to do with what you will. I did not condone your sister’s murder—nor her torment, nor your own as you bore witness to it—because it was messy.” He hissed the word, eyes flashing with anger he no longer deigned to hide. “It was gratuitous, and it was foolish. It accomplished nothing that could not be gained by far less tangled means, and it courted exposure of carefully laid plans before all was in place.”

Face dark with rage, Idris stepped into Rhyzkahl’s orbit, trampling irises. He cocked a fist, ready to strike. “If it hadn’t been messy, if it had served your purposes, you would have tortured her yourself, just like you did Kara.”

Rhyzkahl’s gaze bore into Idris. “Given dire circumstances, yes.”

Idris let out a feral cry and launched his punch at Rhyzkahl’s face. In a move like a striking snake, Rhyzkahl caught and held Idris’s fist. Potency crackled around them in white-hot lightning bursts as they faced each other, eye to eye, tense and immobile.

Shit! This was exactly what I’d feared would happen. Rhyzkahl couldn’t attack Idris, but what if the “rules” of his prison said all bets were off if he was defending himself?

Muttering curses, I drew on the nexus and formed ropes of potency with the plan to drag the two apart. Yet when I tried to lasso them, the potency ropes stopped several feet short, as if a force field stood in the way. No matter how much power I drew, the result was the same.

But was it Mzatal’s doing? Or Rhyzkahl’s?

After an eternity, Rhyzkahl exhaled a soft breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Idris Palatino, I regret that who and what I am has forever garnered the enmity of a gifted summoner. Of my son.” The lightning died around them even as he released Idris’s fist.

Idris stared at Rhyzkahl, stricken and wide-eyed. After several agonizing seconds, he wrenched his gaze free and staggered to the grass beyond the prison. He made it three steps before dropping to his knees with a barely audible sound of despair.

Shock held me motionless—which was fine since I currently had zero desire to draw anyone’s attention during what was obviously an incredibly private moment. I’d rushed out here braced for an ugly con

flict and nasty fallout, and instead had witnessed . . . Well, I wasn’t sure what I’d witnessed.

Rhyzkahl silently regarded the kneeling Idris. If the tremors that shook his son’s shoulders moved him in any way, he didn’t show it.

This is the fallout, I realized with a pang. Forcing myself into motion, I stumbled toward Idris, yet before I’d made it halfway he took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. Relieved, I slowed to an amble to give him time to finish gathering himself.

The hard expression he’d worn these last months had eased, and he seemed lighter now. He’d given his pressure cooker of suppressed anger an outlet and, I hoped, come out the better for it. An air of vulnerability clung to him, but it was as if he’d accepted that everyone was vulnerable, and realized it had nothing to do with being weak.

His careful scrutiny of the ground told me he was still processing it all. I doubted he’d be ready to talk about it any time soon.

“Hey, cousin,” I said lightly. “You missed all the fun last night. You planning on joining us for breakfast?”