Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian 1)

“A summoning, yes.”

Harris frowned. “So it’s possible that this is gearing up to be a big finish, like a cult,” he stated. “We could be looking at a large number of people at risk. And he might kill himself as well. He has nothing to lose.”

I blinked. Where the hell was he getting this from? I shook my head. “Oh, you mean like a murder-suicide thing? Hell, no. He wants the power. The whole reason he’s preparing so carefully is because he does want to live through it.”

Harris’s frown deepend. “Detective Gillian, how is it that you are such an authority on ritual murders?” There was challenge in his tone, and I had to take a mental step back. He was considered a local expert on cults and ritual murders, and I was totally stepping on his toes. Only problem was, the arcane was my area of expertise, and I couldn’t say so. Damn, but I wished Ryan was in here for this.

I took a deep, steadying breath, framing my words as carefully as possible. “I’m not an authority on ritual murders,” I said, then held up my hand when he began to speak. “However, I’ve grown up with and around people who are considered experts in arcane lore, mythology, voodoo, Wicca, the paranormal, and other alternative forms of religion and mysticism. I recognize the patterns on the kitchen floor and, in my opinion, they were placed there by someone who intends to summon a demon.”

Harris narrowed his eyes, face reddening slightly. “All right, let’s assume that our killer really does believe this shit. In your opinion,” and the word was drawled out in a manner that was barely short of being insulting, “is he going to want a pile of victims for his big shebang? And what is he going to do when the demon fails to appear?”

You should be asking what are we going to do when it does appear, I thought grimly. “He’ll try again, if he survives it. He’ll start over from scratch if he has to.”

The faintest hint of a sneer curled Harris’s lip, barely long enough for me to register it before the professional mask came over his face again. He gave me a nod and left the room without speaking. I watched him leave and sighed. It was obvious that Detective Harris didn’t give a rat’s ass that I had a clue about the arcane. In fact, it probably made him think even less of me—I was obviously a fruitcake who couldn’t be trusted to make a logical deduction.

Garner cleared his throat gently. “He, uh, seems very literal, but I’ve worked with him before. He’s actually a pretty good detective.” He glanced up from the stack of papers he was searching through and gave me a wry smile.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, I’m sure he is. And this has to be one of the stranger cases that he’s handled.”

To my surprise, Garner shook his head. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’s worked task-force stuff with us before on some seriously freaky cases, with mass murder and suicide, cult stuff, ritual sacrifices. This is pretty tame, actually.”

I tried not to smile. Except that this stuff was real. And maybe his other cases had been real as well, or more real than he could know. “Well,” I said, “fortunately it looks like we might be on the right track.”

“Kara?” Garner lifted a piece of paper out of the stack he was searching, an astonished expression on his face.

“Yeah?” I said. “Zack? What’s wrong?”

“Kara … this is … you,” he said, then slowly extended the paper to me.

Ryan stepped into the room behind me, moving to peer over my shoulder as I took the drawing from Garner. “Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathed. “It’s you … but, wow. It’s like an über-you.”

I could only stare. It was a drawing of a woman dressed in classic fantasy female-warrior regalia—metal and leather bra, matching short skirt, elegant metal vambraces on her arms, hair flowing free. In other words, unspeakably impractical for any sort of actual fighting. The woman depicted held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other and was shown facing down what I knew perfectly well to be a reyza—fierce expression emblazoned across her face. The woman was beautiful and strong and feminine, and everything about her gave the impression that she was a total badass.

And it was me. I couldn’t deny that for an instant. Holy shit. Is that what he saw in me? The preacher had said that Greg drew the potential in people. Is that my potential? Could I ever be that strong and beautiful?

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or depressed.

“I especially like the outfit,” Ryan said dryly from behind me.

I turned to glare at him. He just grinned. “I think you need to start wearing something like that to work,” he continued.

I couldn’t help but smile, obscurely grateful to him for giving me a point of levity. I didn’t want to think about how far short of that picture I actually fell. “It’s a cool picture, that’s for sure. However, I can promise that you’ll never see me in that outfit.”

But I did tuck the picture into my notebook. Rules of evidence be damned.

Chapter 17

The sky was alight with the pink and orange of dawn by the time we finally finished processing and searching the house. To Harris’s and everyone else’s disappointment, there was no secret basement that concealed a torture and execution chamber, no hidden closets containing arcane implements of death and destruction, and no evidence whatsoever that Greg had actually been the serial killer, or even connected to the killer, other than the pictures in his workroom. I made my way home, blearily stumbling through the back door of my house, barely remembering to lock it behind me. I stripped off my clothes and collapsed onto my bed, falling asleep within half a dozen heartbeats.

I woke late in the day with dim and scattered memories of dreams containing Rhyzkahl—hazy threads of images that bore little resemblance to the powerful sendings of his previous visits. I lay on my back, looking up at the wood of my ceiling, allowing myself to wake up fully. Those were probably actual dreams, I decided, as I tried and failed to remember the content. Dim snatches lingered briefly—images of Rhyzkahl scowling at me, calling to me, and a jumbled memory of me rolling over in bed and telling him to go away and let me sleep. It had to have been a dream. Surely I hadn’t told a Demonic Lord to go away and let me sleep.

The clock on the nightstand showed seven p.m. I sat up, running my fingers through my tangled hair. My internal clock was completely screwed up now, after staying awake two nights in a row. Again.

The one good thing about having slept all day was that I knew it would be easier to be out most of the night looking for people. I showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt that was uncharacteristically devoid of anything police-related, strapped on the ankle holster that held my little Kel-Tec .32 under my jeans, and pulled my shirt down over the holster on my belt that held my Glock 9mm. And, no, I wasn’t going to call Ryan to come with me on this. I wanted people to talk to me. Fed Boy would more likely scare people off.

I drove slowly through town, considering where to start. Beaulac was not exactly a bustling metropolis, even though its population and the population of the entire parish had swelled dramatically after Katrina, much like all the other parishes that surrounded New Orleans. And, of course, that unexpected growth had resulted in an increase in the number of “problem” neighborhoods. Areas that were previously “not so nice” had morphed into “don’t go there after dark,” much to the dismay of the community leaders.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Some of those areas were exactly what I needed. But even armed, I was reluctant to go in without backup. However, I could think of a number of places where I’d be able to find people who could help me out. In fact, the outreach center where Greg had done so much of his work was probably the best place to start. With any luck, Reverend Thomas would be around and able to identify some of the pictures.