Marked by Death (Necromancer #1) - Kaje Harper Page 0,59

Burns fought, then pleaded. As the walls touched him, the demon emerged, hissing and clawing like a cat, the ice-heat of its claws like sharp needle pricks inside Silas’s fist.

He stopped, gathering his anger and his compassion for what needed to come next. A tendril from his walls reached out, circled Burns’s neck, and yanked. Burns’s body dropped limply to the green-iced carpet.

“Silas!”

He ignored Darien’s horrified exclamation and tweaked the runes to thin the worlds-barrier. He yanked another rune, and a tendril lashed out around the demon. “Give me your name.”

The demon shrieked and scrabbled at the tendril, trying to dig claws in, but the spell was built for this. It tightened.

Silas said, “Tell me your name, I compel you.”

The demon fought, wrestling with the control and the compulsion. Silas opened his power up another notch, and the demon gasped, “Zarimond.”

Yes. Silas tweaked again, and the thin spot between worlds ruptured, opening a hellgate across the containment. “By your name, Zarimond, I banish you.” He worked the name into the walls, not flinching as the balefire licked at them. Closing his hand was hard work, but like squeezing a lemon, not a stone. Slowly his fingers came together. The demon was forced back, licked by the flames.

It opened its mouth, for an offer or a curse— he wasn’t sure and didn’t care. With a last effort he slammed his fist shut. The gate irised closed, sucking Burns’s body with it in the final collapse, leaving a smoking hole in the carpet. The backlash slammed Silas down to the floor.

Then the room went still, silent but for several people’s harsh breathing and the ticking of the mantel clock. Silas rolled over on his back and turned his head to look for Darien. He found him sitting, a fist pressed to his lips, eyes wide. He’s all right. The relief made him close his eyes for a moment.

Then, rolling his head the other way, he said, “Will someone let go of my damned cat!”

“Sorry.” Locke gestured and the containment around Grim and Mal vanished.

The two cats looked at each other, then Grim trotted over to swat at Silas with one big paw. “Falling for the old ‘shake my hand’ trick. How old are you again?”

Silas rubbed Grim’s cheek. The fact that he got a purr rather than another swat said something about how worried Grim had been. “Sorry.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Norgaard said. “It was mine. I let Burns trap me, much the same way and with less excuse.”

Susan Snow said, “We can assign blame later. I’ve brought Worthington around, but he needs a bed and rest. Silas, do you need attention?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” He thought about sitting up to prove it, then decided that lying on the carpet was good for a few more minutes.

Locke said, “Norgaard, after we make sure you’re free of demon taint, I have a dozen questions for you. You will accept a truth spell.”

“Yes, of course.” Norry sounded exhausted, but Silas couldn’t hear any demon harmonics in his voice.

He sniffed the air, but there was enough brimstone floating around to mask anything. He roused himself enough to say, “Crosby’s house should be locked up securely until we can go through it properly. I suggest Worthington as part of the team, to have the most warning if anything dangerous remains.”

“And you, of course,” Locke said.

He thought about refusing, but if there were other captive demons, he’d rather find them in situ than inside another friend, or even enemy. “All right, yes. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Ferngold said, “You’ve earned a rest, of course. But we still want to know the details of those runes you used. If another demon was willing to risk capture to keep us from finding out, there must be something highly useful there.”

“Tomorrow.” He waved a vague hand at Ferngold. “Ask me tomorrow. Lateish. Not at seven again.”

Susan Snow said, “Locke, help me get Worthington upstairs. I’ll tend him here tonight.”

Silas heard scuffling, and Worthington’s grunts as they helped him out. He realized his eyes had closed. Someone came near, and he recognized Darien by his sounds and his smell and his presence. Darien. He jumped when something stung his ear. Struggling up, he accepted Darien’s arm supporting his back while he rubbed at his earlobe. “What did you do that for?”

“You can’t sleep here. For one thing, it reeks of smoke. For another, I don’t trust this bunch further than I can throw them.”

“Now young man—” Ferngold began.

“He’s right.” Silas took a