Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian 1)

I sighed. “Aunt Tessa, I thought you recognized the name Rhyzkahl. What is he?”

Tessa ignored me and flipped to another section of the tome. “This one is Rhykezial.”

This picture didn’t show a creature that I had any familiarity with at all. It looked more like a painful cross between a squid and a spider, and I figured it was one of the multitudes of creatures that could not be summoned between the planes. Or perhaps something from another plane entirely. There were a multitude of planes, but the demon realm was the only one that ever intersected with this world, as far as I knew.

I let my breath out gustily. This was starting to feel like looking at a lineup. “No, Aunt Tessa. Can’t you just tell me what Rhyzkahl is?”

Tessa closed the tome with a soft thud. “I just don’t want to believe that you summoned that one. To be honest, I find it very hard to believe that you summoned that one.” She gave me a sidelong look. “Especially since you’re still here and still you.”>My mind kept going back to what he’d said to me. Call me whenever you need me. Call him? Summon him? Who was he to say such a thing? And how was I supposed to do that when I didn’t know how I’d done it in the first place?

I walked out to the living room and fired up my computer, then pulled up a search engine. It was a long shot, but I’d struck gold with the Internet before. There were no formal organizations or cabals of summoners that I knew of, but there were a few message boards—the type that catered to the “paranormal nutjob” faction—that were sometimes used to exchange information between arcane practitioners. A good 99.9 percent of the posts were incredibly fantastical piles of bullshit, from people who claimed to be “masters” of arcane power. But every now and then a nugget of promising information could be unearthed from someone who actually knew what the hell they were talking about.

No such luck this time, though. I ran searches with every possible spelling variation of Rhyzkahl, but the only hit I came up with was with Rhizko—which turned out to be the user name for a pudgy and pasty online gamer of indeterminate gender.

I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my eyes. “Shit.” The two hours of fitful tossing that had preceded my alarm going off had not done much for my energy level or mental sharpness. “Shit,” I said again for good measure, then stood. It was barely seven a.m., and the autopsy on the victim from the wastewater plant wasn’t until noon. I had time to seek answers from a far more reliable source.

I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt from a Miami-Dade PD training seminar, shoved my hair up into a ponytail, and jabbed some mascara at my eyelashes as a pitiful concession to makeup. After the autopsy I would come back and change into something decent. It was sorely tempting to just bury myself in work, push all of this crap to the back of my mind. That was the way I usually dealt with stress in my life.

But I already knew that this was one problem I wouldn’t be able to put aside until later. I needed to know, and since the Internet had failed me, the next best hope was that my aunt would have some useful information in the library at her house.

Now I just had to figure out how to explain to my aunt how I’d screwed up such a simple summoning.

Aunt Tessa’s house was on the lakefront, a century-old two-story with gleaming white paint and lovely blue gingerbread molding adorning the porch. Most of the equally lovely old houses in this area had been restored and were now tourist attractions. Many offered tours. My aunt’s was not one of them.

There was a cheerful Welcome! sign on the door—a standing joke, since my aunt encouraged visitors about as much as I did. I avoided people by living in the middle of nowhere, and my aunt did so by maintaining carefully crafted wards and protections that were set around her house. Unless a person was invited or had significant need to be there, most who came to Tessa’s house remembered something more pressing that needed to be done or decided that the visit could be put off until another day.

I once asked her why she bothered with the welcome sign at all. She replied that she didn’t want people to think her too odd or standoffish, so having a welcome sign on the door would mollify people’s attitudes toward her.

I had learned long ago that the best way to deal with that type of rationalization from my aunt was to just nod and change the subject.

I could feel the faint prickle of the wards as I entered her house, a sensation like passing through an invisible beaded curtain. I wiped my feet automatically, though I doubted that my shoes were dirty. But Aunt Tessa kept her house clean enough to be a showplace, even if she never allowed anyone inside except me. She’d restored the house by herself right after I started with the PD, and it still looked just as perfect as the day she’d finished—gleaming hardwood floors, elegant flowered wallpaper, and exquisite crown molding—all immaculate and flawless.

“Aunt Tessa?” I called.

“Front room, sweets!”

I stepped around the corner to see my aunt ensconced with a book upon an antique love seat. Sitting lotus-style. How a woman in her late forties could be limber enough to sit like that was beyond me, but Aunt Tessa was remarkable in numerous ways beyond her flexibility.

To most in the community, Tessa Pazhel was the mildly eccentric and extremely unpredictable woman who ran the natural-food store downtown. Tessa dressed the part, too, wearing brightly colored skirts and clashing shirts in eye-searing tones one day and then muted khakis and combat boots the next. Wild kinky blond hair sprang out from Tessa’s head, the polar opposite of my painfully straight brown hair. Tessa was whippet-thin, while I had to fight tooth and nail for every ounce of fat loss. The only feature we had in common was our gray eyes.

I was the spitting image of my mother—Tessa’s sister. At least that’s what I’d been told and shown in pictures. My own memories of my mother were dim at best.

Today my aunt was dressed in a mid-calf-length blue velvet dress, with heavy silver chains draped around her waist and black suede boots on her feet. She lifted her eyes from her book and peered at me as I sat in the chair next to her.

“Well, you’re alive,” she said without preamble, setting her book aside. “Which means that if you summoned Kehlirik it didn’t go too horrendously wrong.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she looked into my face. “But you sure don’t look very happy about a successful summoning.”

“The summoning of Kehlirik went fine,” I said. “I’ve officially completed my training and am now a full summoner.” I paused. It would be so easy to just leave it at that. But then I wouldn’t get any answers. “I … uh, tried to summon again last night, and … well, things didn’t go quite the way I’d planned.”

The angles in her face seemed to sharpen. “That right there is a very bad thing. When there’s any deviation from the plan in a summoning, someone usually ends up in bad shape.” She arched an eyebrow. “So, what happened? You tried to summon a higher-level demon again and couldn’t hold it? You dismissed it? It didn’t come all the way through?” She shook her head. “Two big summonings in a row is pretty dicey.”

I groaned. “Aunt Tessa, I don’t know what went wrong. I wasn’t trying anything ambitious at all. I was trying to summon a lower demon, Rysehl. Easy. And I called Rysehl, but that wasn’t what came through.”

Tessa went very still, and when she spoke, her voice had lost all trace of its usual gaiety. “Kara, what came through?”

Shit. How was I going to explain to my aunt that not only had I somehow screwed up the summoning but then I’d gone and had sex with the creature?

Tessa reached out and grabbed my hand, bony fingers painfully tight on mine. “Your silence is unnerving me, kiddo. Spill it.”

I winced. “I called Rysehl—I’m sure I did! But it wasn’t Rysehl. I’m still not sure what he was, but he said his name was Rhyzkahl.”