Bryce released my shoulders, let out a low sigh. “He put it back on your finger,” he said in a low voice and touched a finger gently to the prongs. “After he brought you back, that is.” A whisper of pain and horror threaded through the words, and I looked up sharply. Shadows huddled beneath bloodshot eyes, and stubble marked an uneven path along his jawline.
“You look like hell,” I blurted.
He let out a wheezing laugh. “You’re one to fucking talk!”
I struggled to laugh along with him, but it was a pitiful effort. Bryce sensed it and let his own die away, then shifted from the crouch to sit on the coffee table before me.
“He told me he had to . . . summon her, summon Rowan in order to get her out of you.” Bryce shook his head. “I’m not explaining it very well. Sorry. I was kind of yelling at him a lot and probably missed some of what he said.”
“It’s all right,” I murmured, then took a deeper breath. “I’m me again, and the virus is gone.” Of that I was certain. Szerain knew the rakkuhr with terrifying intimacy, knew Vsuhl’s hunger, and had used one nightmare to defeat another.
And I didn’t know how to feel about any of it.
“What happened after he,” I gestured vaguely at my sternum, “did that?” I had on a t-shirt, I suddenly realized. And running shorts. Eilahn’s work, no doubt. I gave her a nod of gratitude, for far more than the clothing. She inclined her head in response, relief stark on her features. She’d had no way to divine Szerain’s true intent and, like Bryce, had surely thought the worst.
Bryce’s mouth twisted into a smile. “You mean after you joined the ‘Devastating Chest Wound’ club?” He thumped his own chest in mock-solidarity, and this time my laugh was more genuine. “Jesus, Kara,” he breathed. “When he stabbed you and twisted the blade, I thought that was it.” Remembered shock and horror flickered over his face. “But then the knife vanished. He dropped to his knees beside you and slapped his hand over the wound, started working the healing.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think he was sure he’d be able to save you. He was sweating it, hard.”
I touched my chest again. “Yeah,” I said, voice quavering only a little. “I doubt that kind of damage to the heart by an essence blade is a walk in the park to fix.”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Well, I don’t ever want to do that again.”
“I’m with you there,” I said fervently. “I am one hundred percent cool with never getting stabbed in the chest again.”
“So.” Bryce cleared his throat. “Agent Kristoff is a demonic lord. Did not see that coming.”
I smiled weakly. “Surprise?”
He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Understatement of the year.”
My fingers moved over my sternum, and I felt the sigil scar beneath the shirt, a gap in its lines where Vsuhl had cut and Szerain had healed. And Szerain had done something to the twelfth sigil, changed it. But to what?
“So, uh, where’s Ryan?” And wasn’t that ever a loaded question, I realized after I asked it. My last memory of him was as a completely unsubmerged Szerain in full possession of his essence blade. I had no idea what sort of state he’d be in now.
“I don’t know,” Bryce said with a slow shake of his head. “He left this morning and said he’d be back tonight.”
“Did he look like . . . Ryan when he left?” I asked somewhat hesitantly. I had a sudden image of an unsubmerged, Vsuhl-wielding Szerain out in the world. I couldn’t help but worry about, well, consequences.
“Yeah, he did,” Bryce said to my relief. “While you were busy getting pesky holes in your chest, Sonny left about a billion messages on my phone telling me Zack wanted to talk to Ryan—I mean, Szerain.” He grimaced. “Szerain went down to the basement to return Zack’s call, and when he came back up a little after sunrise he was all Ryan. Looks, mannerisms, everything.”
Zack had sensed it all—the blade, Szerain unsubmerging. That must have freaked him out pretty hard. But how did Szerain get to be Ryan again? As far as I knew, the act of submersion—including making him look like Ryan—was inflicted on him by another. Had Zack recovered enough to blip over and do it? I found that improbable; he’d been a total mess when I left him. Could he have done it over the phone somehow?
Or did another enforcer come to take Zack’s place? My mouth went dry at the thought. I doubted any other would show Szerain the mercies that had kept him sane for all these years.
I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Anything to eat around here?”
“There should be leftovers,” he said. “Plus sandwich stuff. Hang tight, and I’ll check.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.
Not so easy to hang tight with a bladder about to burst. I made my way to the bathroom, did my business, then flopped back on the sofa and promptly fell asleep again.
I woke to find a ham and cheese sandwich with chips on the coffee table, and Bryce dozing in the comfy chair with his head cocked to the side in a way that would likely leave him with an aching neck. A half-eaten sandwich rested forgotten on his thigh. I got up, gingerly retrieved his sandwich and returned it to a plate on the side table, adjusted his head to a more comfortable position then grabbed my food and headed for the kitchen.
I ate slowly, savoring the sandwich, the feel of my kitchen, the scent of gardenias from the bush outside the window. But mostly I took the time to appreciate being me. Who I was had nothing to do with being a cop or a summoner or with who my friends were. It was far more intrinsic than any set of externals.
Tunjen and a handful of grapes finished off the meal. I felt good, definitely better than I had since Rhyzkahl hit me with the rakkuhr virus. The ache to share with Mzatal threatened to take over, and I pushed it down, sealed it away. No point in going there.
It worked. A bit.
After I tucked my plate into the dishwasher, I realized I had no idea what to do next. There were plenty of things that needed to be dealt with, but nothing immediate and in my face.
Get clean, I decided. When in doubt, shower.
Once in the bathroom, I stripped, gazed at my reflection in the mirror. A patch of smooth skin between the ribs to the left of my sternum marked the place where Vsuhl had pierced. Technically, it wasn’t a scar at all, but rather a lack of one within the other scars. Yet it felt like one as it marred the lines of Mzatal’s sigil, left a gap in the flowing curves of his signature mark. I touched the spot, reflexively reached for him. I sensed him, even though he was in the demon realm, but what would have been a faint, tingling hum before was now rigid, cold silence. Why, Mzatal? It shouldn’t end like this. Not without a word.
With a shuddering breath, I pushed away thoughts of what I couldn’t change right now, ran my hands over the other scars. Still the same.
Except for one.
I turned slowly away from the mirror, looked back over my shoulder at the reflection of the twelfth sigil, the one Szerain had altered. Then stared. I’d felt four cuts, nothing more, but he hadn’t simply added to the existing scar. He’d changed it completely. How was that possible? The angular rigidity of the original had been replaced by artistic curves and flourishes that spoke of delicate strength. But even that wasn’t enough for my World of Weirdness. It wasn’t even a scar anymore. It was more like an arcane tattoo—beautiful, captivating, and glowing sapphire in othersight.