I forced myself to not react, not speak, until I could process that a few times. “Like some sort of arcane virus?” I asked, a bit surprised that my voice actually sounded mostly normal.

“That is a close analogy.”

“And what is this virus meant to do?” I asked, very carefully maintaining my it’s-all-cool voice as much as possible.

Mzatal’s hands spasmed briefly on mine, betraying the depth of his wrath, though it didn’t show in any other way. “Rhyzkahl activated it with a word,” he said, eyes on mine.

I gulped. “Oh.” Rowan. He’d called me Rowan. In the horrific torture ritual, Rhyzkahl had sought—and failed—to strip my identity and create Rowan, a thrall unswervingly dedicated to his service, his tool. Looked like he hadn’t given up on his desire to own me. “That fucking son of a bitch.” I scowled to bury the sick fear. “My asshole ex-boyfriend gave me an infection.”

“Elofir and I will contain it,” Mzatal assured me. “The implant missed its intended target.” He laid his fingers on my sternum, over the scar of the first sigil Rhyzkahl had carved. “Had it struck here, it would have activated my sign, then those of the other ten lords. Once complete, you, beloved, would be gone and Rowan birthed.”

I shook my head in denial. “But I thought he couldn’t do shit with the scars after you crashed the ritual.”

He moved his hand to rest on the small of my back over the twelfth scar, the one Rhyzkahl had failed to ignite during the ritual. “The unifier sigil is inert,” he said. “It is true that he cannot use it to conjoin the others and create that which he sought, a Rowan thrall to focus the unified potency of all eleven lords.”

The place under his hand felt . . . normal. Though the other scars burned or tingled or crawled or itched at times, the twelfth seemed nothing more than grotesquely beautiful body art. “If he can’t turn me into a weaponized super Rowan, what the hell is he trying to do then?”

“Adapt and use the other sigils to create a lesser thrall,” he told me. “One dedicated to his cause. I cannot determine the full purpose, but if nothing else it serves them to destroy you and strip my zharkat from me.”

“Great. A budget Rowan.” The sick fear twisted. High tech or low end, either way I lost my identity and ceased to exist. “Can you get rid of it?” I asked tightly. “Some arcane antiviral?”

“As it is crafted of rakkuhr, I do not know a means at this time.” His aura went very dangerous and dark. “The implant must first be contained so that it cannot migrate to your chest, and then we will wring the means of its deactivation from Rhyzkahl.”

I lifted a hand to his cheek. “First contain it, then we get Idris, and then we wring it out of Rhyzkahl.”

“First you, then Idris. Yes,” he said softy, and I felt him pygah and calm. “It is best if you sleep deeply while we create the containment. Will you acquiesce?”

“I’ll never argue with naptime,” I told him lightly.

A faint smile brushed his lips, then he leaned in, kissed me, and sent me to sleep.

I woke in bed to the sight of morning sunlight playing on the shimmering leaves of the grove beyond the southern window wall. A couple of feet away, Jekki crouched on his two hind legs and, with his other four paws, carefully held a hot mug of coffee ready and waiting for me. Damn, but I was spoiled.

“Jekki, you’re amazing,” I said with a sleepy smile.

The little blue faas chittered, purple iridescence shimmering over his pelt as his long and sinuous tail twisted. “Hell-o, how . . . arrrrre you. I am fine! Have a niiiiiice day. Earth!”

It took a lot of effort, but I managed to contain my laughter. I sat up and took the mug from him. “That was excellent,” I told him. “You can also use ‘What’s up?’ and ‘Have a good one!’” I resisted the urge to teach him Hasta la vista, baby.

He peered at me, blinking his large bright golden eyes. “One of what?”

“Er, a day or moment or encounter,” I said, then shrugged. “It’s fairly vague.”

“Okie dokie!” he burbled. “Have a goooood one! Buh-bye!” And with that he zipped out.

Remarkably cheered by the exchange with the clever demon, I sipped my coffee and conducted a quick personal assessment. I felt great, to my immense relief. I didn’t know exactly what Mzatal and Elofir had done, but not only did I no longer feel weird-tingly-odd, my twisted knee and various other dings and scratches were as good as new.

Yep. Definitely spoiled. I finished my coffee, quickly bathed and dressed, then sat like a good girl so that the faas Faruk could braid my hair into something that looked a tad nicer than Unkempt Mop. As soon as she burbled her satisfaction with the result, I gave her a thanks and a head pat, then headed to the plexus.

I was two steps past the entrance to the solarium when it registered that someone was asleep on the broad sofa. Mzatal? I jerked to a stop and wheeled back, then exhaled softly in relief as I realized it was Elofir. He lay spooned up against a sleeping dark-haired woman, his arm draped over her. I couldn’t help but smile at the tender sight. The woman was Michelle Cleland—a former drug addict who’d ended up in the demon realm as a “sacrifice” from the Symbol Man serial killer to Rhyzkahl.

Ironically, it had probably saved her life. No longer a strung-out crack whore, Michelle had bloomed into a lovely young woman, clever and quick-witted. Moreover, she and Elofir had formed a deep attachment to rival the one I shared with Mzatal. She’d been sent to the demonic lord Vahl when she first arrived but had found her home with Elofir.

The two looked utterly adorable curled up together like that, but as I continued down the hall, it clicked that the containment of the arcane virus must have been exceedingly difficult. The lords only needed sleep for a night every eight to ten days or after great exertion, and I highly doubted Elofir’s current slumber was simply from normal fatigue.

With that unsettling thought, I continued on and successfully located Mzatal in the plexus chamber, relieved to find him awake and aware. He stood before the pedestal and basin in the center of the room adroitly working planet-stabilizing potency with practiced precision. Each of the lords maintained his own plexus, and if any shirked in their responsibilities, the entire world suffered. Every lord did his share. It was the one thing they all agreed on.

Two ilius—Wuki and Dakdak—lay curled in the cushions like shifting multicolored smoke with hints of fangs, eyes, and sinuous bodies. A third, Tata, ceaselessly coiled and uncoiled beside Mzatal, waist-high, its eyes steadily visible and focused on the plexus flows. They were three of the dozen or so third-level demons that made their home in and around the palace. In the demon realm, ilius fit into the niche of arcane vultures, feeding on stray essence from dead or dying creatures. When I’d summoned them to Earth, I’d paid them with nutria which seemed to work well for all concerned except perhaps the nutria. I’d also thought of them as being fairly low in sentience and intelligence, little more than arcane bloodhounds I used to help me occasionally on cases. However, even though I still couldn’t communicate with them worth a damn, Mzatal had deep affinity with the creatures and actually consulted with them.

Mzatal’s eyes remained on the blue-green strands and the pair of glowing orbs before him, but I felt his awareness of me as well as his assessment of my well-being. After I patiently waited a few minutes, he anchored the strands then moved to me, touched my cheek with the back of his fingers. He looked much better today, I noted. The stress and dismay no longer vibrated through him, which served to relieve the last traces of my own anxiety.

I gave him a light kiss. “I feel fine now. It’s all going to be okay,” I said, reassuring us both.