Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)

He jerked his head my way. At the sight of Sprout, he tied off the potency in moves too fast to follow then sprinted toward the huddled people, reaching them the same time I did.

The reyza let out a shriek of fury and launched himself into the air. I jerked my guns up but immediately lowered them, frustration clawing at the sight of the demon’s arcane shielding.

Sprout pivoted mid-air and flung a ball of red-orange potency at us. With a sweep of his hand, Elofir raised a shimmering green barrier in time to scatter the blast, but the demon continued to lob volley after volley. Though the barrier held, we were trapped behind it. In the street, falling snow flashed with lightning and potency as Mzatal and the big reyza fought.

“Why is this guy bothering with us when he could be helping his buddy out there?” I shouted at Elofir over the crackling din of the strikes. Not that I wanted a second demon attacking Mzatal, but at least I wouldn’t have to stay and protect these people and could instead help him out. Somehow.

“Demon honor,” Elofir replied through gritted teeth. “Bikturk chooses to engage Mzatal alone.”

Bikturk? Ha! More like Big Turd. With Sprout unlikely to abandon his attack to fly off and help Big Turd, taking him out of action became a priority. However, I knew better than to ask pacifist Elofir to zap him. “Can you wrap this asshole up in bindings?”

We flinched at a hard strike that shattered like bloody stars against the barrier. Behind us, the girl whimpered.

Elofir staggered and struggled to reinforce. “His protections are such that I would have to drop this barrier in order to craft effective bindings,” he said. “I would require no more than three heartbeats, but in that time the reyza would have ample opportunity to cause great injury or worse.”

Double shit. I missed my arcane abilities now more than ever. Back at home, it would take me less than a minute to make shield busters. Too bad I was really far from home right now.

But did that matter? What if “other side of the world” wasn’t too far for the super-shikvihr boost?

Silently chanting please work please work please work, I mentally reached for my nexus, then jerked in surprise and relief as power leaped into my control. It wasn’t as god-like as when I stood upon the nexus—more like what I’d had before my abilities were stripped from me. I could make floaters though, and that was all that mattered.

I dropped to a crouch, hit the mag release on my Glock and thumbed the first five rounds into my palm. According to Idris, metal would only hold a fraction of the charge that the quartz spheres could. That would be a serious problem if I was on my own, but not so much when paired with a demonic lord who only needed a point of entry. “If you can hold this barrier another minute, I’ll punch a hole in his shielding.” I hoped.

An almost-smile touched Elofir’s face. “That would simplify matters greatly.”

Across the street, Big Turd took flight, landed atop a battered five-story building then rained arcane shrapnel onto Mzatal. I yanked my right glove off with my teeth and concentrated on weaving the sigils to turn the bullets into shield busters.

Sprout let out a roar and dropped to the ground near the curb, lips pulling back from his fangs as he assessed Elofir’s barrier. Between his clawed hands, roiling potency gathered, seething with the red and black of rakkuhr.

“Almost done,” I muttered, blowing on my fingers to warm them before sketching the final patterns. In my periphery, I saw Mzatal leap a zigzag course from balcony to balcony, like a parkour god, evading Big Turd’s strikes to reach the roof and engage in furious battle.

Sprout let out a piercing war cry and hurled the rakkuhr at the barrier. It impacted and spread like a glop of jam then snaked dark tendrils over the barrier’s surface.

Elofir hissed through his teeth as he fought to counter the insidious rakkuhr. “Ten heartbeats, Kara. No more.”

“Got it.” Fingers numb, I wove the last sigil on the bullets, reloaded the mag, slammed it home, and chambered a round. “Now!”

As the barrier dropped, I brought the gun up, sighted and squeezed off two rounds that struck Sprout dead center mass. In the blink of an eye, Elofir sent a spike of potency through the opening. It spiderwebbed on the inside of the demon’s shield, destroying it before constricting to envelop Sprout in a tight potency net.

The demon squawked and flopped into the snow. I grabbed my glove and sprang up, sprinted past him and toward the Mzatal vs. Big Turd main event. Their battle flowed along the rooftop, brutal and beautiful like a perfectly choreographed dance of death between equal opponents. Bloody gashes marked the reyza, and Mzatal’s face was a mask of red, likely from a scalp wound. Big Turd moved with a grace and speed in stark contrast to his size, using wings and tail, claws and teeth to hammer Mzatal with blows, both arcane and physical. Mzatal ducked and leaped, slashed and struck with both essence blades. It would onl

y take one slip, one misjudged strike to tip the balance. How long could Mzatal hold so much power?

I slid to a stop in the middle of the street, dropped to my butt and tugged on my glove, then pulled my right knee up to use as a base to steady my aim. Forty yard shot, minimum, I thought as I settled into position. Three shield piercers left. I’d been an average marksman at best when I was a cop, and that was with a max target distance of twenty-five yards. But I’d gone through twice as many rounds in these past two months than in my entire police career. I can do this.

My finger rested lightly on the trigger as I sighted down the barrel and watched for an opening. The reyza was a whole lot larger than a paper target, but he and Mzatal were in constant motion, shifting position with inhuman speed. “Let’s not shoot the wrong one, okay?” I murmured. Even though I knew our bond lay cold and silent, I reached to the core of Mzatal’s essence, opened my mind so that he could feel my intent.

And hopefully get the hell out of the way of a bullet.

I pygahed and slowed my breathing. Mzatal took what had to be an intentional misstep, giving me what I needed. Big Turd lunged into the opening, and I squeezed the trigger.

The demon let out a roar that shook the earth and shattered windows even as the next two rounds found their mark. Mzatal drove lightning spikes into the punctures, and the shielding burst like shattered glass. Big Turd snapped out his wings and surged into the air, but Mzatal had clearly anticipated the retreat and leaped after the demon.

He sank one blade then the other into Big Turd’s lower back. The demon bellowed and twisted in flight, clawing at his attacker in mounting desperation as, hand over hand, Mzatal used the knives like cruel climbing pitons to scale him. High between the shoulder blades, he buried Xhan in the muscle of the right wing then wrenched the knife, slashing flesh and membrane. Blood showered the snow as the demon faltered then careened toward the ground in a poorly controlled descent.

My breath caught as Mzatal reversed his grip on Khatur and ran the point alongside the demon’s spine. He’s positioning for a heart-strike, I thought with a mix of relief and horror. He’s going to kill him with an essence blade. Even as the realization hit, Mzatal plunged Khatur between ribs and into the reyza’s heart.

Bikturk howled like a tortured beast, head thrown back and limbs stiffening in rigid spasms. The terrible howl trailed off into a strangled croak followed by awful silence as he went limp and plummeted toward the street.