Demon Lord 5: Silver Crown King (13 page)

Lysande balanced the tray while swiping across the desk to clear a space.  She set the tray down so Izumi and I had it between us.  “There!”  The silver smith stepped back, smiling, fists on her hips, waiting for due adulation. 

My bodyguards murmured in appreciation.

Julia’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open as her own inner dragon sat up to take notice.  “Oh, I definitely want one of those.”

My inner dragon stared through my eyes. 
Mine!

Not so fast
, I thought.  Under the desk, my hand closed on a Berretta PX4 Storm semiautomatic, magically summoned from my armory in Malibu.  I gave Julia a hard stare to get her attention, and gave a command in dragon hisses: “Ready your butterflies.  Statues are yours.”

Her glance slid to the stone manticores, then back to me.  “Yes, father, the crowns are very lovely.”

“Oh, that’s what you said,” Izumi leaned forward in her chair.  “I must admit my dragon is a little rusty.” 

Seeing her about to pick up her crown, and a slight widening of Lysande’s smile, I sharpened my voice.  “Izumi!”

Startled, she stopped, pulling back.  “What’s wrong?”

“I can see a faint trace of slumbering energy.  There are opal beads worked into the designs—dream stones.   The crowns have been enspelled.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Lysande said.  “I wouldn’t do something like that.”

I stood, my gun against my body where the statues couldn’t see the threat to their mistress, not yet.  I looked Lysande in the eyes and asked a simple question.  “Where’s Teramantha?  I thought for sure your sister would anxious to kill me.”

Lysande trembled.  There were tears in her eyes.  She held her hands over her heart and then used a thumb to gesture through her chest, toward the door she’d come in by. 

I mouthed a word.  “Hostage?”

She nodded.

Julia muttered.  “At least it’s not me this time.”

THIRTEEN

“I always ‘kill well’ with others.”

                                                   —Caine Deathwalker

Hostage situation.  How sad
. 

I had a mental picture of the silver-haired eight-year old who was overly fond of blood-red dresses and crocheted vests, the girl who’d tried to kill me with a wolf rug.  “Well, good luck with that,” I told Lysande. 

My battlefield-voice bludgeoned across the room, “On your feet guys; we’re outta here!”

Pain, my most intimate lover, took hold of my cock and wrung it with enthusiasm while an evil spirit wearing golf shoes kicked me in the balls.  Just because it was caused by activating magic, didn’t mean that I couldn’t be pissed about it, not that I let such weakness show.   Raw magic flooded my
Demon Wings
tattoo.  From one breathe to the next, I vanished from everyone’s awareness.

Lysande stumbled back a few steps.  “Caine…!”

All-but-invisible, I threw myself across the desk, sliding head-first.  I spun like a car hitting ice and got my feet under me as I came off the desk, between the chairs Izumi and Julia were in, except by then, they were on their feet.  I touched their wrists so they were included in my spell, and only they could see and hear me.

“Draw the kidnappers to the jewelry store while I get the kid.  Julia, the manticores.”

I ran past the chairs and turned sharply toward the door to the rest of the apartments.  Before I got there, black clad fey soldiers with silver weapons spilled into the room, causing me to duck and swerve.  Just because I was cloaked didn’t mean they couldn’t hit me while trying for someone else. 

Squeezing off shots, I dropped two of the fey attackers, and sent my gun elsewhere.  I trusted my personal security to see the threat and act while I handled other business. 

Waiting to slip past the incoming warriors, my enveloping stare kept track of the battle, as well as Julia and Izumi.  Izumi cold-cocked Lysande to keep her out of the fight, not knowing what side she’d take.  Lysande went down which activated the statues, bringing them to murderous, roaring life. 

But Julia—having seen way too much anime—loudly screamed the special name of her magical technique so as to maximize its power.  “Blue Butterfly Storm Attack!”  Her little voice almost echoed with menace. 

Well, she tried
. 

The butterflies did more than try.  They peeled off her stomach in fluttering waves, a tight formation until they cleared the desk and spread out to intercept the lunging manticores.  Like a dozen flash bang grenades going off, the flying blue ink violently disintegrated on contact with the snarling stone beasts.  Hit in the throats, the statues’ heads rolled like bowling balls.  Their control collars flopped onto the floor.  The stone bodies lost all animations.

Lucky shot. Or did she mean to do that?

The enemy fey flung weapons freely, not caring who they killed as long as someone died.  It was an approach I often used myself. 

The curved knives spun end-over-end. 

Izumi’s ice-wind swept them safely aside. 

My bodyguards countered with gunfire.  Catching the returning shifter hounds as they charged in.  The hounds sprawled and slid, smearing blood in their wake.  They whimpered, whined, and died.

No one else shoved into the office.  The hall was clear.   I slipped into the hall.  The stone floor was polished, but a runner down the middle provided traction.  The walls were white cedar.  Wall sconces with pale blue crystals provided light.  To my left, the hall ended in a huge, slow-turning fan for ventilation.  To the right stood a second wave of black clad fey.  Beyond them were numerous family suites.  The fey were focused on dark crystals, amulets, and on tying their fingers into obscure knots as they muttered assorted spells. 
Warriors and magicians for back up.  Someone is serious about getting to me.  Too bad I’ve already gotten to them.

I shoved one guy—with yellow-green energy clouding his hands—into a fey cleric who was praying, fingering a black-beaded necklace like a good Catholic.  The incompatible energies went wild.  Shining Hands shrieked like a damned soul, his skin sloughing off as his cellular structure decayed. 

Ah, Autumn Court assassins
.

Mr. Beads lost his head, literally.  Nightmare mists of blue and black uncoiled from his ears, the shapes of dragons, trolls, and demon-kind.  The mists acted like what they resembled—tearing at the cleric’s face and throat, ripping out his tongue and eyes.  Wrench at his head until his neck snapped.

Ah, Nightmare Court too
. 
That’s unexpected.  And unless I miss my guess, I smell ozone down the hall from Storm Court fey.  Looks like they’ve got Teramantha.

With a thought, I summoned my demon sword.  Its savage hunger hit me like a runaway bus as the hilt slapped into my palms.  Its voice filled my head, a demand,
Feed me!

  I made no argument, glad that the hallway was double wide.  I pitched one way, slicing the other.  Wheeling, I repeated the technique, bracing myself for the soul-screams of the fey as the big ventilation fan went
whump, whump, whump…
  The black sword I held was limned in red fire.  It lapped up the silver-blue souls of the dead mages.  Instead of going on to Avalon, elven paradise, the souls became part of my blade, adding to its hungry howl. 

A backwash of that sacrifice spilled extra strength and power into me.  This forced sharing was a design feature that prevented the sword from easily getting strong enough to devour me like the rest.  As it was, the blade dreamed of one day catching me in a weakened state and slurping my soul as well.

Finally a decent meal
, my sword said.

If you behaved a little more
, I said,
you’d get out more often
.

Bite me!

I hurried forward to the next doorway which stood open like an invitation to death.

There’s more?  Fuck yeah!  Let’s go get them.

This was Lysande’s room.  They were here.  I smelled their fear, their body odors, the heady tang of ozone was stronger.  Fortunately, I knew the room’s layout having made use of the bed many times on my last visit.  Unfortunately, they had filled the space with heavy fog that obediently didn’t stray across the threshold.  Someone with a brain had set this up.  They knew of my
Demon Wings
tattoo and my “you-don’t-see-me” spell.  They wouldn’t need to see me to track me.  They could follow the man-shaped hole in the fog. 

Unless…
  I smiled.  I could pull all the fog into my spell and hide it along with me.  My sword had given me a boost of power.  Enough power to pull this off. 

Preparing myself, I took a moment to recall my first visit here, nailing down the details of the layout so I would stumble over furniture while trying to survive.  In my mind, I saw a cathedral-sized pocket in the surrounding rock.  The walls would be polished, partially draped with tapestries.  The central space would be clearest with islands of furniture arranged close to various walls.  Moving right would be a cooking area with a bronze stove on clawed feet, a shaft overhead drawing out the smoke. 

The far right of the cavern would curve into a much smaller pocket, the bend half blocked by a standing screens hinged together, black lacquered panels with a pattern of mother-of-pearl cranes flying into a sun setting in a mountain scene—a Japanese import from Earth.  Covered with furs, the king-sized bed in that smaller cavern had many pleasant memories attached. 

Unfortunately, I had no time to wallow in them.

Pouring a god-awful amount of energy into my
Demon Wings
tattoo, I went through the door, taking possession of the fog.  I still saw the hazy vail, but I heard gasps of surprise indicating that the storm fey didn’t.  The fey were clumped in the center of the space.  There were five of them, and one by the fire pit holding Teramantha so her tear-stained face was just above the smoking coals.  Her captor leaped to the top of my list of who needed to die first.  I shifted my sword to my left hand and summoned a Beretta PX4 Storm with explosive rounds.

My first shot disintegrated the bad guy’s wrist so that Teramantha could pull her face back from the threat of the coals.  My second shot hit the storm fey’s head, making a red cloud of it.  The standing corpse crumpled without a whimper.  Teramantha scrambled to take cover behind the bronze fire pit with its cute but useless feet.  She chanted, her words rising, a gathering spell.

I let my gun vanish, putting both hands on the hilt of my sword.  I was near the milling fey.  A few of them fired blindly, slinging bolts of lightning that exploded furniture and chunks of wall.  One of the fey held up a loop of wood wrapped in leather.  In its center, a cord held a sliver needle—a tool for scrying, for finding lost things.

Oh, no you don’t!

I stabbed between two warriors, pierced the heart of the seer behind them, and watched him crumple as his soul leaked out, only to be slurped up by sword.  Looking over their shoulders, the two warriors turned toward each other, losing focus on their swords.  I had to go low to the stone floor so they wouldn’t accidently snip my head off.  I slashed across their stomachs and watched entrails slither to the ground as the dropped their swords.  With three bodies near me, it was pretty easy for the rest of the warriors to guess where I was, and what I was up to.

I flung myself away as conjured winds and webbings of lightning battered the spot I’d just vacated.  Rolling up against a love seat, my foot sent an end table clattering over.  Several of the storm fey turned, tracking the damage I’d done.  Their hands came up, fingers splayed, sheathed in violet-blue fire that built toward discharge.  I scrambled to throw myself clear once more, releasing my sword so I could summon guns for what had turned into a long range battle.

Through the last part of the engagement, I’d vaguely registered a metallic clomping sound like hammers on an anvil.  The rhythm accelerated as the bronze fire pit, staggering along on its clawed feet, ran into the storm fey.  Brought to life, shrugging off the lightning blasts, the bronze furnace waded into enemy ranks.  Slinging coals, it opened its maw and went to gobbling the offending fey. 

All the while, Teramantha shrieked with vengeful laughter, delighted by the effect of her spell.  She hadn’t been this strong just a month ago. 
Girl’s really been practicing hard to kill me
.  Now that’s deep devotion.

The last surviving storm fey broke away, plunging toward the hallway.  I unloaded a semi-automatic, bringing them down dead.  I let go of the
Demon Wings
tattoo, feeling relief from the crushing drain on my power.   The bronze crucible took a few steps toward me.  Calm, I turned to face Teramantha, extending my full gun to cover her while I sent the empty one back to my armory to be magically reloaded.

“You should have taken cover.  If you die,” I said, “your spell dies too.”  I hoped. 

The Bronze oven stopped dead in its tracks.  Apparently, I’d guessed right.

Teramantha said, “I suppose it would be poor manners of me to kill you right after you protected my face from disfigurement.”

“He wouldn’t have stopped there.  Death would have followed—after he’d tortured you enough so you’d beg for it.”  Such cruelty toward a child was uncommon among the fey.  Her captor had to have been a psychopath.

Teramantha tried to be all cool, but I saw an involuntary shudder go through her.  The kid had imagination.  That made her easier to scare than the average idiot.  “Fine,” she said.  “I owe you.”

For a fey to say that, established a binding contract.  She couldn’t kill me without first repaying the debt.  It was a short term answer only.  She’d still hate me for killing her father.  She’d still build her strength until the day she was free to strike.  However, I could now turn my back on her, if necessary.

I summoned my second gun from my Malibu armory and headed for the hallway.  “Let’s go see how the fight’s going with everyone else.

The girl’s eyes widened.  “Lysande!”

I heard her running after me, now that she’d remembered her sister might be in danger. 
Sibling love is a wonderful thing.  Not that I knew anything about it. 
I retraced my path and burst back into Lysande’s office.  She was awake, sitting in her chair, just beginning to focus on her surroundings.  Teramantha burst past me and ran to her.  Fiercely, they embraced each other.

There were fey warriors on the floor, all quite dead, one way or another.  Most had bullet holes.  A few had their heads encased in ice so they couldn’t breathe.  Izumi’s work.  I saw no sign of my people which meant they’d done as I asked and drawn the battle to Earth, to the jewelry store where they had the salesladies for backup.  I didn’t hurry.  They rest of the fight had to be over by now.  These things seem like they last forever, but that’s just subjective perception.  Few fights go on very long, not when people are serious about murder.