Текст книги "Mark of the Demon"

Автор книги: Diana Rowland

Соавторы: Diana Rowland
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Yes, you certainly do, Detective Gillian,” he replied, drawling out my title in insulting fashion. “Since I am here as a guest. This time.” And with that he turned and stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall. A few seconds later I heard the front door open and close heavily, just short of a slam.

CHAPTER 14

I leaned back against the sink, heart hammering as I heard the sound of his car engine revving and then gravel crunching. What the fuckjust happened? In less than a minute, the conversation had gone from being pleasant and friendly to a shouting match full of accusations. And I had a sick feeling that I knew what “this time” insinuated. If he truly considered me to be a suspect, the next time he visited would be with a search warrant.

You were an idiot to trust him!I berated myself. Had any of his manner toward me been real? Or had the whole thing been some kind of game to get me to reveal what I knew?

I groaned and scrubbed at my face with both hands. I’d actually been starting to kind of like him. The nice him—Ryan. What a mess.

So much for summoning. If there was even the slightest chance that he would return with a search warrant—and I knew all too well that, if he was determined, he would find enough probable cause to get one—I needed to get moving on some serious cleanup and hiding of my implements. There was no way I’d be able to explain away the summoning chamber. I’d be labeled a “satanist” for sure, probably lose my job, and definitely ruin what little standing I had in the community.

Muttering expletives under my breath, I went to the door to lock and secure it, peeking out first to make sure that he had really left. I changed out of my robe and into sweats, then hurried down into the basement. There were hiding places that I was fairly confident would pass a mundane search, but there was a chance that Agent Kristoff might be able to see any little arcane “touches” I put out.

It took me nearly three hours to clean up the basement and remove all evidence of arcane activity, scrubbing down the concrete floor to erase any traces of diagrams and hiding away my implements. It took me another hour to gather together the potencies to lay a few false trails and place some small protections—all the time certain that the knock on the door would be coming at any minute. Of course, it did occur to me that, if he never came back with a warrant, this whole fiasco had been a good exercise in concealment and use of potency. And, I had to admit to myself, one that I probably should have done a while back.

I stepped back and surveyed the room. To any mundane eye, it looked just like a basement library—a comfortable little quiet study, with smooth concrete floor and wood-paneled walls. To the arcanely trained eye, there was far more to see, but most of it was false trails and muddled signs. Yep, I definitely need to have a quicker method for hiding and cleaning up. In fact, I realized guiltily, I really needed to make it a habit to clean up and hide my implements after every summoning, just to be on the safe side. I’d become far too lazy and complacent. A drawback to having hardly any visitors.

The sun was just beginning to poke through the curtains in the foyer as I emerged from the basement, but at least I was ready for him to come with a search warrant now. I sighed heavily and flopped onto the couch in the living room. The clock on the mantel read five a.m. He probably wouldn’t be able to get a judge to sign a warrant before eight a.m., unless he wanted to go wake one up. And then it would take at least an hour to get a team together. Enough time for a nap, I decided, eyes already closing. I curled up on the couch, tugging an afghan throw over me. Screw him. I was ready.

“You are entertainingmen in your house? Should I be jealous?”

I opened my eyes, blinking in the sunlight shining onto the couch. Someone stood in front of the window, and all I could see was the silhouette of someone tall. “Huh?” I squinted and shaded my eyes. “Ryan?”

The figure laughed, and I went cold. Not Ryan. He stepped forward and now I could see the heavy fall of white-blond hair, the angelic features, the exquisite beauty. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, much like the first time I encountered him, except that this time the breeches were black leather and the shirt was a shimmering green that seemed to catch the light and toss it back into the air. Trepidation stabbed through me as I sat up. “Rhyzkahl. This is another dream, right?”

He smiled brilliantly. “Can you not tell?” He stepped closer and then dropped fluidly to one knee, reaching and stroking the back of his fingers across my cheek, sending a hot thrill of sensation through me. “Do I feel like a dream?”

My breath shuddered in my chest. “You … you felt real the last time, but that was only a dream.”

His eyes flashed in amusement. “Was it? Perhaps that was real and everything after has been a dream.” He leaned into me, breathing against my neck. “The line blurs, does it not?”

I pulled back. “Don’t fuck with me like that,” I said. “I didn’t summon you, so this must be a dream. You’re not really here.”

“Does it matter if I am here or not?” His voice was soft and silky. “You still can find pleasure from my touch.”

“Pleasure isn’t everything.”

He sat back slowly, regarding me. “An existence without pleasure would be difficult to bear.”

I found myself smiling. “True enough. Perhaps I should have said that sexual pleasure isn’t everything.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of my point. “There are infinite pleasures in this existence.” He stroked a finger along my jawline. “I would share many such experiences with you, if you would allow me.”

I took a careful breath. “If I call you to me.”

“Yes. There is little that can be done in this dream state.”

But I knew now what such a call entailed. I struggled to change the subject quickly, before he could press me further. “Actually, there is something you might be able to help me with.”

One perfect eyebrow arched silkily. “Go on.”

I felt suddenly giddy. “I was going to do a summoning tonight—of a low-level demon. But since that didn’t work out, maybe you could share a measure of your knowledge with me?”

He laughed. “I have much knowledge, my darling Kara. What could you possibly desire to know?”

“I saw some runes today on a body, and I was wondering if you could tell me what they are.” I watched him carefully.

He sat gracefully on the floor, with one knee up and an arm draped across it. “I am intrigued, dear one. Tell me more.”

I leaned forward. “They were on the body of a young woman. She’d been tortured and murdered, and I could see arcane traces that had been left behind.”

Rhyzkahl tsked softly, shaking his head. “Such a pity.”

I looked at him sharply, oddly jarred by the tone of his response. His expression showed the proper sympathy, but his voice had been utterly devoid of it. “Yes. It is,” I said after several heartbeats. “She suffered an agonizing death, and I’m trying to find out who did it. So would you please look at these runes for me?”

His blue eyes glittered. “Of course, dear one. Run and get them for me.”

I leaped to my feet and ran for my notebook before I even realized I was moving. I seized my notebook off the table, though the thought occurred to me that I might not be able to read if this was really a dream. And would I be able to remember what he told me? This was getting complicated.

I returned to him and quickly flipped the notebook open to the pages with my drawings, then handed it to him. He stood, looking down at the notebook, running his fingers lightly over the paper. I watched, breathless, as he lifted his hand, pulling a rune from the page in a pattern of writhing crimson light, setting it to spin slowly above his palm. He no longer looked amused or complacent. He regarded the rotating rune with narrowed eyes, silent.

After what seemed like an eternity, I cautiously cleared my throat. “Lord Rhyzkahl, can you tell me what they are?”

“I can,” he said, voice suddenly dark and dangerous, all trace of laughter gone. I drew back from him, unaware at first that I had done so.

“They are sigils of control, of binding,” he continued.

“So, um, her killer used the runes to control her?”

He bared his teeth and I could feel his forming anger. “No. These are for control of another.” He flicked his hand and the rune shattered, fragments of light spinning off and dissipating like scattered droplets of blood.

My throat felt as dry as the Sahara. “Who?” I dared to ask.

He snarled, a wave of fury flowing from him that sent me backing to the wall. His aura swelled, choking me with its potency—an anger even more deep and horrifying than when he’d come through my portal. I slid down the wall, curling in on myself, mewling in terror as the consuming aura of rage and anger smothered me.

I could hear a distant pounding, but the menace and vehemence rolled over me, choking me. Hands grabbed at me and I struck blindly at them.

“Kara!”

I struggled to breathe through the suffocating mire of my fear. More hands clawed at me, pulling me deeper.

“Kara!”

I screamed, flailing against the grip on me. Then pain exploded in the side of my face, and in the span between one heartbeat and the next, the fury was gone.

I gasped for breath, blinking in the light. Someone was shaking me, shouting my name. I felt another stinging blow on my face, and I threw my arms up to defend myself.

“Goddammit, Kara, wake up!”

I lowered my arms cautiously. Special Agent Kristoff stood over me, his hands gripping my upper shoulders, a baffled and worried expression on his face. “Jesus Christ, Kara! Are you all right?”

I gulped and sat up, looking furtively around the room, even though I knew that hewould not still be there. I let out a ragged breath. “Holy crap.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, still holding my shoulders, face etched with concern. “I pulled up to the house and I could hear you screaming from outside. I had to break down your front door. I thought you were being eviscerated or something!”

I dragged a trembling hand across my face. “No. I mean, yes, I’m all right. It was just … just a nightmare.”

He slowly released me and straightened. “That must have been one hell of a nightmare.”

I shuddered. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Not really a nightmare. I just had an unshielded taste of a furious Rhyzkahl. My throat felt dry. I’d just had an intense reminder of what he was and what he was capable of.

I looked up at Ryan, suddenly wary. “What are you doing here? Are you serving a search warrant?”

An expression of utter confusion crossed his face. “A what? A search warrant? What are you talking about?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, beginning to feel slightly foolish. “Um, well, after our argument last night, I kinda thought you might come back with a search warrant.”

He stared at me for several heartbeats. “Detective Gillian, you are insane,” he declared at last. “I came back this morning to apologize for being an absolute ass last night. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”

I smiled crookedly. “Really?”

He laughed. “Yes, really. Then I heard you screaming and busted my way in.”

I looked past him at my front door and could feel my jaw drop. The door hung twisted and broken, barely held by one hinge, and the frame was shattered, with wood fragments scattered throughout my foyer. “Holy shit, did you drive your car through the front door?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I really did think something awful was happening to you.”

I laughed weakly. “Okay, that’s kinda sweet, in its own weird way. Even worth a destroyed door.” I stood, tugging my sweatshirt into place, then walked over to the remnants of the door. “But how did you dothis?”

“I’m stronger than I look, okay?” he said, exasperation showing in his tone. “Kara?”

“Yes?”

He looked at me, head slightly tilted, eyes serious. “Did you summon last night after I left?”

“Not … exactly,” I said, after a brief consideration of how much to share with him. “But I did get some information about the runes. Come on, I need coffee, and I’ll explain.” I headed to the kitchen, trusting him to follow.

“Hold on, I’ll be right back,” he said instead, and exited out the ruined front door. He returned in a moment, carrying a white box, which he placed on the kitchen table. He gave a small shrug. “When you didn’t show up for the meeting this morning, I figured you were totally pissed at me, so I decided to bring by a peace offering.” He flipped open the lid to show a box full of chocolate doughnuts.

“How did you know?” I breathed, stomach growling in response as I picked one up.

His lips twitched. “I have ways.”

I grinned and bit in. “Whatever.”

“So what’s the deal with the runes?”

I sat down, dabbing at spilled crumbs. “They’re runes of binding and control. I think that my suspicions are right—this guy is planning a major summoning and is building an arcane prison, using these victims for the energy.” Some unpleasant theories were beginning to take shape in the back of my mind. Rhyzkahl’s fury had erupted at seeing the rune of binding. Had he been furious at the thought of any Demonic Lord being bound and controlled, or was it more personal?

Ryan sat across from me, his expression dark and brooding. “You mean it’s some kind of death magic?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, though it’s more complex than that.”

“No need to go into details. It would probably take too long for me to understand it, and I don’t really need to. So,” he said, looking at me levelly again, “how did you get this information?”

“That’s incredibly complicated. I just need you to trust me that I’m pretty sure my information is accurate.”

“Pretty sure?” His brow creased.

“Um, well, this is going to sound weird, but I kinda got the information in a dream.”

He blinked, then fell silent for a moment. Finally he shrugged. “Well, I figure there’s a whole lot here that I don’t understand, so I’m just going to have to trust you on this one.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m about ninety-eight percent, at least.”

“So, are you going to try again tonight to summon?”

“Well, it’s not as urgent now that I have the information about the runes.” I fought the desire to wince at the sudden realization that I was deliberately finding a reason to avoid summoning. That won’t do at all. But there wasn’t time right now to deal with this new neurosis of mine.

He looked at me for several heartbeats, then stood. “All right. Well, I need to be getting back to the office. We’re going to try to meet up again this afternoon at three.”

I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

He hesitated, as if wanting to say something else. Then he shook his head, gave me a smile, and departed through the gaping hole in the front of my house.

CHAPTER 15

After Ryan left, I swept up the shattered wood in my foyer, then wrestled what was left of the door back into position—or at least close enough to drive a few nails into some of the longer pieces of its shattered frame as rudimentary braces.

I stepped back and looked at the door, totally baffled. A flying side kick? Up the stairs and across the porch?How the fuck had he done this much damage? But at least he’d woken me from that nightmare. Still, I’d have to scrounge some plywood later to do a better job of securing it. Hurricane season wasn’t for another month yet, so I could probably borrow one of the sheets of plywood that Tessa used to protect her store during storms.

My cell phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize just as I was putting my tools away in a kitchen drawer.

“Detective Gillian,” I answered.

“Detective? This is Greg Cerise.”

I straightened unconsciously. “Hello, Mr. Cerise. What can I do for you?”

He laughed, with a trace of what might have been uncertainty. “You can call me Greg. Look, I don’t know how this is going to sound, but, uh … I … I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to read the comic. I mean, if you wanted to, I have extra copies.” He sounded eager now, the ingenuous puppy.

“Actually, my aunt loaned me a copy of the series. I definitely want to read them, as soon as I get a chance.”

“Cool. That’s cool.” He was silent for a few seconds. “So, um, I saw an article in the paper about these murders. The Symbol Man stuff.”

“Uh-huh?”

“And … I saw that you’re the detective on the case. Right?”

“Yes, I am. Do you have some information for me?”

“Um, no. I–I was just wondering if you’d come to talk to me the other day because of something to do with those murders. I even came by the station, just in case, but you weren’t there.”

“Nope. I was just curious about the picture of Rhyzkahl.” I glanced at the clock. Shit. I’m gonna be late again. I started gathering all of the files and notes that were strewn across the kitchen table into a stack. “Why? Do you know something that I need to know?”

“No! Oh, no … nothing like that. I was just wondering, y’know, and then wanted to see what you thought of the comic.”

“Well, I’ve been a bit busy, but I promise I’ll give you a call as soon as I get the chance to read them,” I said, frowning as I tried to unearth my notebook from all of the crap on the table.

“Oh. Okay. All right. Well … thanks.” With that he hung up. I stared at my phone for a second, frown deepening. What was that all about? Was he trying to tell me something? Or was that his way of trying to hit on me?

“I can see why you’re a single man, Greg,” I muttered as I headed to my bedroom to change clothes.

I came tothe office laden with stuff—all the case notes and photos and clippings that I had at the house, which was quite a bit. I’d just tossed everything into a box when I realized that I was going to be late. Bad enough that I’d missed the morning meeting. I’d look like a complete flake if I missed another.

To my relief, the conference room was empty. I grabbed a seat, then started going through my notes, looking for anything new that could possibly leap out at me. A short while later, the door opened and the agents trooped in, followed by the sour-faced Detective Harris. I took a few minutes and showed them my notes and photos, then we each briefed the others on our progress—which wasn’t much. After the briefings, we took turns going over different sections of the case, occasionally making observations or comments.

After about an hour, Agent Garner stood, groaning and stretching his arms over his head, his back popping audibly. “My eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of my head.” His gaze fell on the box. “Hey, what’s this?” he said, pulling out the stack of comics. “Is this part of the case?”

“Oh, crap, I didn’t realize that I’d thrown those in there.” But even as I said it, I could feel a mental click, as if something had been stewing in the back of my mind and was now ready to be examined. Who is that rune of binding for? Is it coincidence that Greg Cerise is so familiar with this particular Demonic Lord?“To be honest, though, I think that maybe there isa connection, but I’m not really sure how to articulate it just yet.”

Harris glanced at me. “A hunch?”

I gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. “Well, sort of.”

To my surprise he gave an approving nod. “Hunches are important. It’s the way your subconscious tells you something needs to be looked at.” He reached over and took the top copy and began to page through it. Following his lead, Garner snagged one as well.

“Demons, eh?” Harris said. “So this goes along with your suspicion that this is some sort of ritualistic series of murders?”

I nodded, still too surprised to say anything. James Harris had not struck me at all like someone who could calmly accept the arcane. I opened my mouth to explain, but he spoke first.

“I’ve done a lot of studies on this sort of thing and been to several training conferences on ritual murder. I mean, obviously it’s total crap, but the important thing is that the murderer truly believes that this stuff can give him some sort of mystical power.”

I closed my mouth, relieved that I hadn’t revealed anything crucial. I flicked a glance at Ryan and he caught my eye, giving an almost imperceptible nod and shrug. Okay, so maybe Harris couldn’t accept the existence of the arcane, but at least he could accept the concept of it long enough to pursue leads in that direction.

“Hey,” Garner said, abruptly straightening. He pointed to a panel in the comic he was holding. “Hey, this is one of our victims!”

“What?” I straightened. “Which one? Are you sure?”

He pushed the book to the others, pointing at the top panel on the right side. “Look at this girl. Isn’t this the victim that was found out in the swamp about five years ago? It would have been his fourth or fifth murder, I think.”

I stared at the drawing. Could it be? “Are you sure?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

Garner nodded emphatically, digging through a stack of pictures, then pulling out the pictures of a clay bust—the facial reconstruction for this victim.

“Here. It’s the same girl.”

I peered at the comic and then at the photos. “Are you sure?” I repeated doubtfully. It was so hard to tell. The reconstructions were as good as they could possibly be, but there was just no substitute for a photograph of a living, breathing person—and we had those on only the few who had been identified. This girl had not been one of those few. The crime-scene pictures we had showed a young black woman with close-cropped hair, a face bloated by decomposition, eyes filled with maggots, and a network of careful burns patterned across her cheeks and throat. A significant difference from the picture in the comic, which depicted a woman dressed in flowing gowns, head adorned with flowers, lifting a hand for a small, glowing winged creature to alight upon.

“Take a look at the reconstruction.” Garner slid the photo across the table. “Take a look at the way the eyes tilt, the line of the cheekbones.”

I studied the photo carefully and then compared it to the drawing. “I … guess it could be the same. But it seems like a stretch. I mean, there’s no way to be sure.”

Garner exhaled. “Look, I know it’s hard to see. But I’m really good at this.”

Ryan nodded. “It’s true. Zack has a knack for faces.”

I looked again at the drawing and then to the photo. A sliver of excitement began to worm its way through me, and I shoved the rest of the comics over to Garner. “See if there are any others in there!”

He looked startled for an instant, then realization struck. “Oh, my God. If there are others in here—”

“Then that’s the link we’ve been looking for,” Harris finished, giving a rare smile.

I felt as if I couldn’t breathe as I watched Garner slowly flip through the comics. After what seemed an eternity, Garner said very quietly, “Here’s another.”

All three of us practically pounced on him. “Which one?” I demanded.

Garner grinned. “Number three. Here, the soldier on the rampart.” He pointed to a thickly bearded red-haired man dressed in armor, holding a spear, looking out over a rampart. The man looked burly and strong and confident, barely recognizable as the victim—a drug-addicted homeless man who’d been known to dig through garbage cans for food.

I sat back, heart pounding with deep excitement. “We have our connection. I went and spoke to the artist, Greg Cerise, a few days ago, and then he called me just a couple of hours ago.” I glanced at Ryan. “I think we have enough probable cause for a search warrant.”

Ryan nodded, and Harris did as well. “Definitely,” said Harris.

I laughed, giddy with sudden relief. Finally, a true break in the case. “I’ll start typing.”

By the timeI got the search warrant typed up and found a judge to sign it, Garner had found five more victims in the comic, including one of my Series Two victims, Mark Janson. Mark had been portrayed as a musician—a slender artist with graceful fingers and an easy smile. Had Greg seen something of that in him or perhaps heard him play? I didn’t know anything about Mark—whether or not he’d actually been a musician of any sort—but the thought of that sort of innate talent going to waste was aching.

“But I think there are more that I’ve missed,” Garner said, shaking his head. “It’s tough to tell with some of these reconstructions.”

“I’m hoping there’ll be more at this guy’s house,” I said. “Something else to tie it all together.” Had all of Greg’s fluff been an act? Had I given him a chance to get rid of evidence? Or had the phone call a few hours prior just been to check and see if I was getting close? Damn, I wished that there was enough for us to actually get a warrant for Greg’s arrest, but the judge hadn’t budged on that one. It had been hard enough to get the search warrant. Judge Finn had frowned over the pictures of the victims and the drawings in the comic for several minutes before finally shrugging and shaking his head, stating that he wasn’t so sure the drawings bore any resemblance to the victims. “I think you’re grasping at straws, Detective Gillian,” he’d said, while grudgingly signing the search warrant. But the requests for an arrest warrant had drawn a flat “No. Just because you think he drew them doesn’t mean he killed them.”

We’ll find something at the house, I told myself as I went over the ops plan for the search warrant with the others. We’ll get the evidence and this will all be over.