To Jack and Anna.

I clung to the pain like a badge of honor. Blood dripped in a slow splatter from a deep gash in my forearm, and my left knee throbbed from a vicious twist, but I couldn’t suppress my grin. I dragged my sleeve across my face to clear some of the sweat and grime, and squinted at the massive demon who crouched beside the white trunks of grove trees a dozen feet across the clearing. Two blue-white splodges of arcane potency writhed on his chest like knots of electrified worms where my rounds had struck. That had to sting.

“Well played,” Gestamar rumbled as he stretched his leathery wings wide then folded them close. He bared wicked fangs, bright white against the rich bronze of his heavy-featured bestial face. “You have been practicing.”

“Every single day,” I replied. It was the first time I’d won in nearly four months of games, and it felt damn good. “Games” with Gestamar—the demonic lord Mzatal’s essence-bound reyza—were like a combination of hide and seek, tackle football without pads, and hunting, all while trying to reach and defuse a bomb that happened to be on the other side of a kick-your-ass obstacle course from hell.

Not that we were in hell or anything remotely like it. This world, known simply as the “demon realm,” was about as far from the Earth concept of hell as a rain forest was from an oil refinery.

And as much as it sucked to get battered, bloodied, and knocked on my ass, I remained grateful for every scenario he ran with me. Whether here or back on Earth, I needed all the training and conditioning I could get—physical, mental, and arcane. My background as a cop and demon summoner would only get me so far with the kind of enemies I had: Rhyzkahl, Jesral, Amkir, and Kadir—four demonic lords dubbed by Lord Seretis as the Mraztur, which loosely translated as “motherfucking asshole dickwad defilers.”

The designation fit perfectly.

Those four were bound and determined to either forge me into their tool or kill me trying. Too bad I had other ideas.

I wiped blood from the Glock with a relatively clean corner of my shirt and jammed it into its holster at the small of my back. Technically it wasn’t a Glock at all, but a masterfully wrought demon knock-off with weight and action near indistinguishable from the real deal—invaluable for training since my gun was an integral part of both offense and defense on Earth. Ammunition made of resin casings, gunpowder, and potency pellets—an ingenious creation of Mzatal’s—turned the thing into what I lovingly called my potency paintball gun. The option to include my cop weapon-training in live fire scenarios rocked.

“You endure much for Idris,” Gestamar said and swept a clawed hand over his chest several times to clear the residue of the potency strikes.

“He’d do the same for me.” My jaw clenched. Like me, Idris Palatino was a summoner—a human with the ability to open a portal between Earth and this world, the demon realm. Moreover, he was Mzatal’s protégé, utterly brilliant, and a damn nice guy who I was proud to call friend.

But four months ago, I’d inadvertently almost destroyed the demon realm during a ritual to retrieve Vsuhl—one of the three essence blades. And, when the dust cleared, Idris was gone—kidnapped by the fucking asshole Mraztur.

“We’ll be going after him soon, and I intend to be ready.” I straightened my shoulders. “But it’s not just for Idris. When I get back to Earth, I have family and friends to protect.”

Gestamar grunted and dropped his eyes to my arm. “Your wound requires care. Do you wish me to bind it?”

I looked down and grimaced. A shallow jagged gash from one of Gestamar’s claws ran from elbow to wrist on the outside of my forearm. “The bleeding has pretty much stopped,” I said. “I’ll get Mzatal to fix it, but you have my thanks for the offer.”

Gestamar stood, towering over me by several feet. He bared his teeth in the scary demon equivalent of a smile. “Again, well played,” he said, then bounded toward me and leapt into flight at the last instant.

I ducked and covered my head, instinctively shielding myself from the strong downdraft of his wings. “Thanks!” I called after him. The windblast carried the bold musky spice scent of a reyza after exertion, much more pleasant than the human equivalent. I sniffed my pits and gave a disgusted shudder. First, find Mzatal for a little damage repair, then a long soak in the bath.

Fortunately, we’d ended the action in the grove, which was only a few minutes walk from the palace. A couple of hours earlier, we were far afield in the eastern hills, and it would’ve been a long limp home.

Sunlight filtered through the brilliant purple and green leaves of the canopy, danced over the white trunks and onto the short, soft grass of the clearing. Ahead of me, two parallel lines of trees formed a tunnel that led out of the clearing and toward the palace. I released a soft sigh of ease and allowed myself a moment of serenity as the grove’s presence wrapped around me like a comforting hug. The groves formed a network of organic teleportation nodes, with one in each realm of the eleven demonic lords and about a dozen or so more scattered across the planet. My intuitive connection to the special trees baffled the lords, and though it felt perfectly natural to me, I had no logical explanation for it either.

Not that I was complaining. It was a damn powerful connection to have.

As I limped toward the tunnel, a tailless flash of orange, white, and black darted past me and disappeared into the trees. Fuzzykins, Eilahn’s cat. Her presence meant that my awesome syraza bodyguard was somewhere nearby. Not that she was ever far.

As if in response to my thought, Eilahn approached through the trees. Here in the demon realm, she kept her syraza form—long-limbed with graceful bird-like fragility, gorgeous pearly iridescent skin and delicate wings that looked too flimsy to be of use. The perfect example of how looks could be deceiving. There wasn’t a damn thing fragile about her. On Earth she took the form of a human woman in order to blend in, though the form she chose was smokin’ hot chick. She drew a fair amount of attention with her looks, though admittedly less than wings and three-fingered hands would.

“You are victorious,” she said, her large violet eyes shining with pride.

I beamed, still basking in the warm glow of triumph. “I am! I was done, exhausted, and then faked a face plant—which must’ve been convincing, because Gestamar swooped down for the kill. I twisted around and nailed him twice, point blank. It was sweeeet.”

“Sweet, yes, for the victory,” she said in the beautifully musical syraza tones that brought birdsong and meditation chimes to mind. She eyed me critically, touched my wounded arm then dipped her head toward my knee. “Injured nearly to immobility.” Displeasure touched her elegant, humanoid features. “Not good.”

“Got my foot wedged between some roots,” I told her, looking down at the swelling. “I turned, my foot didn’t, and my knee paid the price. It wasn’t pretty.” It actually hurt like blazes, but if I’d been back on Earth my big worry would have been whether the damage was repairable and if it would need surgery and how long I’d have to do physical therapy in order to walk properly again and how much it would end up costing me. I smiled to myself. Pain was easier to handle when a bit of time with a favorably disposed demonic lord would make it good as new. Best healthcare plan ever.

I flashed a grin. “Even with the bum knee, I still managed to make it through the tree tunnel, drop Gestamar, and unweave the wards before they blew.”