Legacy of the Demon (5 page)

I
oofed
out a breath and wrenched my hand out of the glove, barely in time to twist away from another head shot and catch his wrist. Slime-gel still sealed my other hand to his shoulder, but I managed to wrestle his arm above his head and pin it to the bed. At least whatever the fuck was screwing with him hadn't made him super strong.

But now what? With one hand trapped and the other holding his arm down, I was in the worst game of Superglue Twister ever.

Eyes wide, Cory thrashed wildly and let out an inhuman roar. Impossible, considering his mouth and nose were completely filled with yuck, but though the sound remained physically inaudible, it bombarded my brain from the inside out like a telepathic grenade.

Breathing hard, I mentally traced the
pygah
sigil for focus and managed to clear my mind. “Back off, alien slime shit,” I growled, teeth bared. “Get out of my head and stay out!”

As if in reaction to the rebuff, Cory relaxed and his eyes fluttered closed.

“Yeah, damn straight,” I said, voice quavering, then regrouped and reassessed. I'd fended off the mental crap, but I remained stuck. And Cory wasn't breathing. “Cory?!”

No response, but the slow, steady beat of his pulse under my fingers gave me a whisper of reassurance. Not breathing—but not dead.
I'll take it.
The slime still held me fast, but the consistency had shifted to more like a rubbery gel with a bit of give to it.

Pellini skidded into the room. “What the—! Jesus! How long until EMS gets here?”

“I haven't called anyone yet,” I snapped. “Maybe you could give me a hand here? I'm stuck. Gloves are in my side pocket.”

Pellini took in the bizarre situation: Cory covered in a thick layer of red glowing gel and me sprawled half on top of him. A lesser man would have walked right back out. But not Pellini. The picture of calm, he retrieved the gloves from my pocket and tugged them on. “How are his vitals?”

“Heart rate sixtyish. Respirations
zero
. Gel from hell. Now please help me get loose.”

Pellini gave a slow nod as he peered at my trapped hands. “I'll call dispatch as soon as you're—”

“No! What could they do? It's not like he ate a bad tuna sandwich or jabbed a screwdriver in his eye! He'll end up in a bureaucratic nightmare with people who have no clue what to do with this shit.”

“And you do?” Pellini moved to the other side of the bed.

I glared at him. “Better than anyone else would.”

He leaned forward to examine Cory, and I bit down on my lip to keep from shouting at him to hurry. His way of seeing the arcane was different than mine and, I hoped in this case, better.

“The slime-gel is all one piece,” Pellini finally said. “A full-body mucus wetsuit. Both physical
and
arcane.”

“I figured that much out when it grabbed me,” I muttered. “Is there an origin point or source? Somewhere it's more concentrated?”

“Uh huh. Damn.” He peered closer. “It's like someone shoved a radioactive arcane pool ball in his gut.”

“A tumor?” That fit the arcane disease theory.

Pellini gave me a hell-if-I-know shrug. “It's solid. Dense. And spitting out god knows what.”

With Pellini's guidance, I located the tumor with my othersight,
felt
it as a low level ache behind my eyes. And, surprise surprise, it carried the same resonance as the brain roar. “Okay, first order of business is to get me free of this crap. Can you lay a few Pellini-pygahs around it? Maybe if this thing chills out a bit it'll loosen its hold.”

Pellini moved his hands in simple patterns over Cory. “And if it doesn't?”

“Jeez, nice positive attitude. It'll work.” The ache behind my eyes wavered as Pellini wove his sigils. I retraced my mental pygah and envisioned the tumor swaddled in a blanket of serenity.
Everything's cool
, I thought to it.
Nothing to worry about
. After a moment, the hell gel softened enough for me to wiggle
my fingers, but I resisted the temptation to jerk away. Before, pulling had only made it tighten its grip like a Chinese finger trap.

The gel softened a bit more. “That's it, you vile little lump,” I murmured. “Keep it up and you'll move off Santa's naughty list in no time.”

Pellini added another sigil, and the ache behind my eyes dulled a notch. I eased out, millimeter by millimeter. The instant my knuckles cleared the gel, I yanked my hands free then shook them hard. “It
worked
.”

“That's why you make the big bucks,” Pellini said, gaze still on Cory.

I flexed my fingers. My hands looked sunburned—including the palms—but seemed fine otherwise. The ache behind my eyes surged to its former strength as Pellini's sigils faded. Grimacing, I rubbed at my temples. “What do we do with Timmy the Tumor now?”

“It's physical,” Pellini said, forehead creased. “A surgeon could cut it out of him. Nip it in the bud.” Uncertainty colored his tone.

“Or possibly kill him outright.” Instinct screamed that cutting into him was wrong. “No. We don't know anything about this except that it definitely has an arcane component. How's a surgeon supposed to deal with that? We can't risk it.”

“What's your alternative?”

“Get him to the house. To the nexus.” My hope was that the arcane focal point in my back yard would allow me to delve deeper into what was going on with Cory and give me the info I needed to sort this out. “Timmy's resonance reminds me of the arcane implants demonic lords stick in people for tracking or surveillance.” I blew out a breath. “Except those aren't physical.”

Pellini folded his arms over his chest and regarded me. “In other words, you got nothing.”

“Well pardon me for not being the font of all arcane knowledge,” I shot back, stung. “We need a lord's expertise, but unfortunately, with the world completely fucked up, I have no way to summon one.”

His expression darkened. “You don't need to summon one. Rhyzkahl is right in your—”

“No! I'm not using Rhyzkahl as any kind of resource. That's
not an option.” I took a deep breath. “We'll get Cory to the house,” I continued in a calmer tone, “and I'll assess from there—
without
Rhyzkahl.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it closed as Cory let out a low chuckle. My pulse lurched at the eerie sound. Pellini breathed a curse and shifted away from the bed.

“House,” Cory said, voice slurred. “Why are we going to your house?” Though his mouth was free of slime, the red gel shimmered creepily above his soft, peaceful smile.

“Oh, hey, Cory,” I said, doing my damndest to sound calm. “I have a diagnostic tool there that'll let me see what's going on with you.”

“Everything's A-okay, Kara girl,” he sing-songed. “Never better, Kara girl Kara girl Kara girl. Pretty pretty colors around Kara girl. Blue . . . purple . . . pink . . . greeeeeeeen . . .” He trailed off, and the gel closed over his mouth again.

Pellini shuddered. “Jesus Christ, I've got the fucking willies now. Let's move.”

“I'm with you. I don't want to risk touching him again, so that bedspread is coming with us. If you can back your truck into the garage, we can load him up without the neighbors freaking.”

“On it,” he said and was gone.

I kept a wary eye on Cory while I made a call to security at the house, letting them know they needed to prep a quarantine area.

Pellini returned as I disconnected. “Can't back in. Bertha's in the garage.”

“Crap. We'll have to—” I stopped and reconsidered. Bertha was Cory's 1976 Chevy Nova, decked out with radio equipment and an antenna farm. “Load him into Bertha. You drive it and him home, and we'll send someone for your truck and the rest of Cory's radio setup.”

He didn't look at all happy about abandoning his truck but was smart enough to catch on. “Not only can we use the radios, it'll be good for Cory when he gets through, um, this.”

“Exactly,” I said then tensed at the sound of a car engine. A careful peek through the blinds revealed a government sedan blocking the driveway. “Sonofabitch. Feds.”

Pellini groaned and smacked his forehead. “Gallagher texted he was coming after us for the Piggly Wiggly debrief. I forgot because of all this.” He waved a hand at Cory.

“I'll deal with him. Lock the door behind me and don't let them in.” I walked out of the stinky house and closed the door, relieved to hear the
snick
of the deadbolt. At the end of the driveway, Clint Gallagher stepped out of the sedan.

Damn, but I sure hoped I didn't smell as if I'd been dunked in a vat of Eau de Hell Gel.

While the majority of the Feds assigned to this area opted to wear practical and comfortable fatigues, Clint Gallagher stuck with the men-in-black dark-suit-with-sunglasses look. He regarded me through those sunglasses now, mouth pursed in annoyance. I couldn't deny that he was a handsome man in an FBI-recruiting-poster sort of way. Square jaw, high cheekbones, fierce blue eyes, and even a frickin' cleft in his chin that I promised myself I'd someday get to punch.

Gallagher had been on Ryan and Zack's task force, but the combination of my snark and the stick up his ass meant we'd never hit it off. I considered giving him a bright smile as I strolled toward my vehicle, but opted instead for a surly glare. He'd know I was faking any hint of pleasure at the sight of him. Besides, I didn't want him to think I enjoyed his company and run the risk of having to be sociable.

My plan was simple: pacify Gallagher, send him on his way, and get Cory to the nexus. “You didn't have to chase me down.”

He whipped off the sunglasses to better glower at me. “Is it in your job description to make my day harder than it already is?”

“It's in the fine print.”

Gallagher looked past me toward the house. “How's Cory getting on?”

“Pretty good. He's wiped out from PT, so he's taking a nap.” All I needed to make my day extra super special was for Gallagher to decide he wanted to visit the squishy-gooey Cory. “Pellini's making sure Cory has everything he needs, then we're out of here.” I fished my keys from my pocket. “I need to get home
and hook up with the Russian DIRT liaison. How about we get that debrief out of the way?”

“Deal.” His mouth flattened into a thin smile. “I'll follow you over to the Federal Command Center.”

I faked a wince. “Sorry. My schedule's too tight to hit good ol' Fed Central today. I'll give you a quick verbal report and email the full thing later.”

“You had enough time to make a social call.”

His tone put my back up. “A few minutes with Cory versus the hours that Fed Central would chew out of my day? No comparison. Not to mention, how I schedule my time is none of your goddamn business.” I scowled. “Since when is face-to-face a requirement?”

“Since now.” Gallagher jabbed his sunglasses at me. “Word has it we had a Class 1A demon down in the dirt, and
you
let it get away.”

“
We
had it?” I narrowed my eyes. “When was the last time you got down and dirty with any demon, let alone a Class 1A?”

“That's not the point.”

I took a step into his personal space and jerked my chin up. “We—the DIRT team—did indeed have the demon netted.”

Jaw tight, he closed the distance until only half a foot separated us. “Exactly. Research shows that an LG4-621S stun net should be more than adequate to incapacitate a 1A demon.”

“That's a nice theory,” I said, planting my hands on my hips to help power my mega-glare. “Small technical difficulty, though. The stun feature doesn't work so great when the net is here and the power supply is snowed in at Memphis R&D. All I had was an untested, undersized,
unpowered
net, and the wizard staff.”

He blinked and retreated a step. “I didn't get that in the briefing.”

“I reported the missing power supply before we engaged the demon. If you'd stayed on top of it, maybe you wouldn't be badgering frontline people over bullshit.”

“There's more on my plate than incursions,” he said, exasperation in his tone. “I dropped everything when the 1A capture report—”

“Who classified the Piggly Wiggly demon as 1A anyway? No one asked my opinion.”

“It looked like a 1A.”

“And an alley cat looks kind of like a panther.”

He shook his head as if he was struggling to keep up. “Are you saying it's a new breed?”

“I'll be sure to include everything in my
emailed
report to Command.” I opened the Humvee door. “Are we done here?”

“No. Wait. You have to—” His phone rang with an annoying laser beam sound, and he snatched it from its holster. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” I muttered as he turned away to answer. I cast a furtive look at Cory's bedroom window. Pellini would signal me if something had gone wrong—wronger—unless he was stuck like I'd been earlier. I sent a quick text. <
Status?
>

>

Good deal. House security was on the ball. Now I just needed to clear Gallagher's rigid ass out of here so we could get Cory to the nexus.

Gallagher cursed under his breath. “But she was holding her own a half hour ago,” I heard him say as I oh-so-casually eavesdropped. “I thought the techs weren't going to—” He broke off and listened. “Jesus. How many more?” Pause. “Dammit. I'll be there in fifteen.” He slammed the phone into its holster, but remained facing away from me for a good five seconds before turning. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, suddenly looking as weary as I felt. “Look, Gillian. You
need
to come to Fed Central.”

Under normal circumstances I'd have told him where he could shove Fed Central, but the uncharacteristic hint of desperation in his voice capped my snark.

“Gallagher,” I said then took a deep breath. “Clint. If you're like me, you haven't had a full night's sleep since the valve explosion. Why don't we call this a standoff and leave it at that. Command will get their report, just not in person.”

“What if I swear you won't be tied up for more than a half hour?”

“I'd say you were a liar.” I kept my tone light, but the worry on his face deepened. “What the hell is wrong with you, Gallagher? Is your ass on the line if you don't get me in there?” I didn't like that thought one little bit. “If that's the case, put me on the phone with your boss. We'll sort it out here and now.”

“No. I'm the only one who wants you at Fed Central.” He swept an oddly furtive glance around, as if he suspected ninjas might be hiding in the bushes.

I threw my hands up in the air. “Spit it out. I don't have time for—”

He stepped close. “A consult,” he said, voice low. “I need an arcane consult.”

“Great. Fine.” Except that I
really
didn't have time for a consult. “I'll have DIRT expedite your request, and we'll get it scheduled.”

“I can't put in a request.” He did another wary check of the area. “But if you just happened to be at Fed Central . . .”

“Hold on. If you can't put in a request, that means your bosses haven't approved a consult.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Or you've screwed up and need help covering your ass.”

Frustration washed over his face. “I don't know why they won't call in an arcane specialist, but our orders are clear. No consults.”

This kind of shit was
exactly
why I didn't want the Feds knowing about Cory. “Let me get this straight,” I said with heat. “You want me to waltz into a hornet's nest, take a big stick and start swinging it around while I sing
Fuck the Feds
? Half an hour, my rosy red—.”

“The task force has David Hawkins.”

I blinked, nonplussed. David was a pleasant, unassuming man who'd spent his life savings to open Grounds for Arrest, the coffee shop across from the PD. The distress in Gallagher's tone made it sound as if David was next in line for execution.

Clearly I was missing a chunk of vital information. I counted to five in Portuguese and fought for patience. “What, pray tell, does the FBI Special Task Force want with the owner of a café?”

Gallagher scrubbed a hand over his face then blew out a breath as if resigned to being “that guy” who leaked classified information. “There's a . . . I guess you could say it's a plague. People are going into stasis in something like a cocoon. The CDC is all over it, but they don't know what they're doing. They've already managed to kill three plague victims. We still have two, including David, and four more were just brought in.”

Shit. A cocoon? I restrained the urge to ask if it was gooey, red, and slimy. This “plague” had to be the same thing Cory was going through, but I wasn't convinced that a trip to Fed Central with Gallagher would be worthwhile, especially not if I ran the risk of getting detained because the higher-ups didn't want an arcane specialist nosing around. No, my best hope for getting useful information was to assess Cory on the nexus. I'd sort out
the Fed mess afterward. “Whether they chose to call me in or not, I should have at least been notified,” I said, more annoyed at being out of the loop than I'd realized. All these damn agencies were more concerned with hoarding secrets than cooperating on problem solving. “Who's blocking channels?”

Gallagher winced as if he had the mother of all headaches. “It's Garner's case. He hasn't been himself since he returned from leave. Maybe because Ryan still isn't back to work.” His mouth pressed thin. “Or maybe power has gone to his head. He's the hot shit Division Chief of the new Arcane Investigations expanded task force.”

Gallagher was still speaking, something about caseload and divisions and seniority, but I'd stopped listening. Garner. Zack Garner. Two months I'd been searching for him, his caretaker Sonny, Ryan, and Ashava: my “AWOL four”, as I'd come to call them. And now Zack was doing his FBI thing as if nothing had happened?

I tuned back in to hear Gallagher finish with, “—and he's been on call twenty-four seven.”

“Got it. No worries,” I said. Gallagher needed an under the table, no strings attached consult. Meanwhile, I needed to pay a visit to Division Chief Zack Garner and, as a side bonus, I could check out the slime victims. “I'm starting to see the wisdom of going to Fed Central . . . to give my
report
.” I stopped short of giving him an over-the-top sly wink. “Let's go. I'll follow you.”