The Demon King (20 page)

Finally.

Arms of swirling, sparkling white sliced
through the black cloud and ignored the hurricane wind as if it
were a tornado on a screen, removed from reality, and unimportant.
Those white magical arms formed fingers, talons of protection that
reached out, seeking Lalura’s young charges in the entropy of the
storm.

Poppy had made it out of the cabin, but no
further than the cobbled stone walkway of its front yard. There,
she had been driven to her knees by the tremendous gale, her hair
whipping around her face like fine tentacles, her teeth gritted in
intense concentration. Her arms were raised at her sides, and her
lips moved rapidly in the casting of a spell. The ground beneath
the Winter Queen was rapidly icing over in the influence of her
frozen power.

She was completely unaware of the killing
blow the traitor had dealt, or of the fact that it was split
seconds away from striking her down.

Violet had also made it out of the cabin,
but she’d escaped in the opposite direction, having escaped through
the kitchen and into the back garden where every flower had been
ripped of its petals and every plant had been uprooted in the
tempest. She’d stopped in her tracks, and unable to stay
unsupported on her feet, she had braced herself against the stone
fountain at the center of the garden. Just like Poppy, she spoke
rapidly in the procession of a spell.

These were capable women.
These were queens. But the traitor had been preparing to cast this
spell for a long time. He’d saved up, stored up, and planned as if
he’d known it would take everything he had and then some, as if
he’d known it would come down to this life and death moment
–
their
lives…
for
her
death.

Lalura broke into three pieces, two of magic
and one of rapidly cooling flesh, and bright blue irises watched a
black curtain descend on the world. It was a world she’d been a
part of for more than eleven decades. But her magic escaped the
wrinkled visage of her cage once and for all and wrapped around the
two women who yet remained on the ground.

She could only hope that what she’d sent
around them would last. She could only hope – and say good bye. She
became the incorporeal shields that would absorb the traitor’s
poisonous tendrils.

She experienced a final thought. It grew
fainter and fainter, as did all sensation.

Until at last, the chaos, the wind, and the
entropy made way for a calm everyone would one day come to know.
But surely, it was a calm few would live to speak of. It was death,
in its most merciful.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The neighborhood was oddly quiet from where
he stood on the house’s front door step. He glanced over his
shoulder, expecting to see traffic or a mail carrier or at least
someone walking along the sidewalk. But it had grown quieter around
him with each step he’d taken on the walk from the gate to the
front door, and now it appeared as though humanity had ceased to
exist. Where was the constant roar of jet engines overhead? The
buzz and honk of traffic? All was silent. All was peaceful. Laz
recalled what Bael had said about no one being able to visit his
mother. Did this have something to do with it?

He faced the door again and raised his hand,
hesitating just a moment before knocking. But his descending
knuckles never had a chance to meet the wood before the door swung
partly open to reveal the house’s inhabitant.

It was a young woman, no older than twenty,
possibly twenty-five at a stretch. But she had eyes the very same
blue as his own.

Laz blinked. He did some quick math in his
head. “Hello,” he said, and slapped on his most charming smile.
“Is… your mother home by any chance?” It could technically be the
kid’s grandmother he was looking for, he supposed. If a teen
pregnancy had been involved.

The woman at the threshold stared at him a
moment, the depth of recognition to her gaze. Then, slowly, she
smiled the warmest smile he’d ever beheld. “No, Laz,” she said
softly. “It’s me.” She opened the door the rest of the way and
swallowed hard. He saw her throat work as if it had grown tight
with emotion. “Son, it’s been a long time.”

It’s impossible
was his first thought. But his second was,
Nothing is impossible
.
Not in the world he’d found himself in, not anymore.

And that would explain her eyes.

“
Please,” she said after a
long pause. “Come inside.” She stepped to the side and gestured for
him to enter. Laz studied her a moment, stuck in that paralyzing
place between shock and acceptance. He took in her blonde hair that
was full and fine in texture like spun gold, her slim neck devoid
of decoration, her petite body in general, and the simple, cozy
clothing she chose to wear – worn blue jeans, a sweat shirt that
fell over one shoulder, and Converse sneakers. He processed it as
he processed everything,
quickly
. And then he cleared his
throat, nodded, and stepped past her into her home.

The brownstone house was like its owner,
small, cozy and beautiful. Directly across from the front door was
a staircase landing. The banister leading up was polished cherry
wood, as were the stairs themselves and the floor. The ceiling was
covered in bas-relief tiles, the lights were all miniature
chandeliers that shed soft, warm lighting, and the windows across
the living room were draped in wispy curtains that let in some
light, but not too much.

There was a fire crackling in the hearth.
Despite the time of year, it was still a comfortable temperature in
the house, and the fire lent it a soothing glow. The furniture was
tasteful, and the throws adorning the backs of the couches and
chairs looked soft and warm. The paintings on the walls portrayed
night scenes and hills and candy-colorful trees and dark nights
filled with bright stars. Laz actually recognized the artist, Mario
Jung. Laz himself was a fan of Mario Jung. He was surprised enough
by the coincidence that he couldn’t help wondering about it.

But he hadn’t seen his birth mother since
just after he was born. Now was not the time to bring up shared
artistic tastes.

Laz waited as the blonde woman shut the
door, turned and smiled at him, and then nervously led the way to
the back of the house, where the kitchen was. He entered the room
as if he knew it already. It was familiar to him, both in
appearance and the way it felt. It was strange yet comforting. He
almost recognized the cupboards, nearly knew the fridge, coffee
maker, and microwave, and had the odd sensation that if someone had
asked him to find a particular mug, plate, or bowl, he would have
known exactly where it was in the cupboards.

The counter in the center of the kitchen was
both an island and a bar, with three stools on one side. A brass
pot rack dangled over the island from the ceiling, and each pot
hanging from it gleamed a high polished reflection of the second
hearth in the house, which was against the far wall in the kitchen.
It was also lit and merrily crackling.

“
Can I get you something to
drink?”

Laz turned to face the woman, who had made
her way to the electric kettle plugged in on the counter beside the
fridge. “Uh,” he stuttered, which wasn’t like him at all. He ran a
hand through his hair.

“
Tea?” she
offered.

“
No thank you. I’m not much
of a tea person.”

“
I have beer.”

That sounded much more like it. But he shook
his head and declined. He wanted to be clear-headed. It was the
only way he was going to be able to ask the tough questions without
emotion getting the better of him.

“
I suppose you have a
thousand questions,” she said, her back to him as she filled the
tea kettle and turned it on. “Like, how can I be so young, and why
am I here in Boston, and how could I have been here this whole
time? And I’m sure you…” she turned to face him, “want to know
about your father.”

Laz felt his eyes wide in his face. That
about summed them all up, all those questions he had to ask. He was
beginning to understand where his instinct and detecting skills
came from.

He just wasn’t sure which question he wanted
answered first.

“
First of all,” the woman
said, “My name is Lenore.” She smiled and her expression became one
of distant memories. “Once upon a time, it was Lenore Bennett. I
look young because I
am
young, Laz. I’ve been young since you were
conceived, and I will be young until the day or night that I die.
And as to the last question… it would take me months to tell you
all I want to tell you about your father. We haven’t got months. So
I’ll tell you what you
need
to know. Right now. To survive.”

She paused, allowing her words to sink
in.

“
And if you do survive, you
can learn the rest later. And I know you will.”

The tea kettle whistled, and Lenore twisted
around to turn it off and grab a mug from the cupboard above it.
Laz watched her with a growing sense of detachment. He recognized
his own feelings as a necessary distancing, something he’d seen
trauma victims do just after a car accident or a break-in. And
since he knew it wouldn’t last, he took advantage of the few
blessedly numb minutes he would have.

He took a deep breath, cleared his throat,
and asked the question every adopted child wants to ask of their
birth parents.

“
Why did you give me
up?”

Lenore froze mid-motion as she was drawing a
mug from the cabinet above her. She remained stiff backed and
motionless for a few seconds before she finally resumed movement
and finished putting the mug on the counter. Laz watched her take
the teapot off its electric base and carefully pour the steaming
water into the mug, filling it half way. “Because I love you,” she
said softly. “And so does your father.”

A spike of anger moved through Laz. That was
the answer they always gave, wasn’t it? They claimed it was for the
child’s own good. And maybe it was. But for some reason, Laz had
been looking for more of an explanation. He’d been expecting
it.

He opened his mouth to tell her so, when she
suddenly left the tea-in-progress on the counter and spun to face
him. He froze before he could speak, held immobile by the sight of
her blue eyes, shiny with unshed tears.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lenore swallowed hard and closed those eyes,
her poise rigid stiff with something she could barely contain. He
watched her lips part, a small intake of breath, and her pulse
raced in the side of her neck. “It had to hurt,” she said through a
choked throat, “for it to work. For you to be conceived, for us to
have you… it had to hurt.”

A silence filled with loathing and even a
little sickness filled the space between them. Without forethought,
Laz said, “So he raped you.”

“
No.” She was quick to
return, shaking her head adamantly. Her eyes flew open, pinning him
with that color that was so much like his own. “
No
,” she said again, quite vehement
in her insistence. “You’re just starting out on this path. There’s
too much you don’t understand.” She gazed at him hard for a few
moments more and sighed, her entire body heaving with a weariness
that even as a seasoned police officer, he’d rarely seen. It was
bizarre to see it in one so physically young.

She turned away again, shaking her head.
“Far too much.” She lifted her steaming mug. It was a weathered
porcelain mug, chipped on one side, but he could still make out the
faint outline of the Star Trek emblem on the other side. Apparently
his mother was an original series fan.

He watched her grab a tea bag from a second
set of cupboards and drop it into the mug before she wrapped both
hands around it as if for support. She brought the cup to her lips
and inhaled the steam, her eyes again closed. “He offered me
everything,” she said softly. “Anything I wanted, I could
have.”

She placed the mug back down on the counter
and went to the fridge to pull out a container of soy milk. As she
popped the quart open, she said, “I was forty years old when he
found me. He seemed… fascinated by me. I was entranced. He was the
most beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on.” She shook her head
as she poured the milk into the mug. “Tall, strong, handsome. Deep
black hair and deep, dark eyes… the kind that make promises only
the most wicked can keep.” She smiled to herself as she returned
the milk to the fridge and then retrieved her mug. She turned to
face him, making eye contact. “But… I should start from the
beginning.”

She took a tentative sip to taste the heat
of her beverage, and her eyes moved to gaze off into the distance,
the way people did when they were remembering things or getting
lost in those memories. “I was born in Boston, Massachusetts in the
year 1940. I was born as the female half of a set of twins. We were
fourteen minutes apart. When Jonathan came…. They said our mother
bled to death. It was mid-century, and medicine’s come a long way
since then.”

Another sip. A pause. Then
she went on. “Our father died of a broken heart four years later.
You know that book
The Cat’s
Cradle
? The one about
Ice Nine
? There’s a part in it where
Kurt Vonnegut describes a type of couple where one can’t exist
without the other. A
durass
, I think he called it.
Something like that. When the husband or wife dies, the other
spouse goes soon after, just dying of a broken heart. Well, that’s
what happened. They tell us the only reason he lasted as long as he
did was to see us out of our infancy.” She paused and swallowed
hard, sinking further into her past. “I found him one morning in
his bed. It was a Tuesday. The alarm was just going and going and
going… and this time, he didn’t shut it off.”