Blood of the Demon (Kara Gillian 2)

And if it was still there, and usable, by morning, then this whole summoning gig would suddenly be about a thousand times easier.

Chapter 22

As soon as I woke up the next morning, I ran downstairs to check my storage diagram. Even before coffee—which for me was a major deal. The basement was stuffy and hot, but I barely noticed. The potency still lay pooled in the diagram, thrumming softly to senses beyond hearing. “Hot damn, I am good,” I murmured, grinning like an idiot.

Now, could I use it? I rubbed my hands together gleefully in my best mad scientist impression and ignored my body’s demand for coffee and food. I took a deep breath to focus and pulled the potency from the diagram—slowly at first, then with more certainty, until I could feel the power coiling and crackling around me. I laughed as I felt the potency respond in shimmering undulations. It was only a couple of hours after dawn, at a time of the month when potency was erratic and hard to pull, and here I was with smooth and solid power at my disposal.

I toyed with the power for a while, practiced sending it back into the diagram and pulling it out again, my understanding of the wards deepening as I watched how the power flowed. I could see ways that the structure could be adjusted to hold power more efficiently or altered to allow for different uses.

I could also see why it was very likely that no one had figured this trick out before. Without that crucial component of the ward that was used in the beacon, this wouldn’t work. And how often does a summoner get the chance to glean knowledge from a demonic lord? My skill at warding was novice at best, but I could still see that this ward was the sort of thing that only someone who was a “twelfth dan grandmaster” would be able to figure out. And Rhyzkahl had given it to me. Did he know the other ways it could be used?

I reluctantly released the power back into the diagram one more time, then broke contact with it, exhaling as the power settled into the shining wards. The next true test would be to attempt a summoning using stored power. And a dangerous test as well, I reminded myself. If I screwed up with a summoning, I wouldn’t lose only the stored power, I’d lose body parts. I’ll be sticking to a lower-level demon, that’s for sure. Just like when I was beginning to learn how to summon.

But now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time for coffee. I hauled myself upstairs, suddenly feeling the fatigue hit me. Sure, the power was there at my disposal and it was far easier to draw it out of the diagram than out of this sphere, but I’d still been exerting effort to hold the potency, and I felt as if I’d summoned three reyza at once. Note to self: Don’t forget that this takes it out of you.

I finished getting ready for work, then poured a cup of coffee and brought it out to the back porch. It wasn’t even seven a.m. yet, but I could already feel the promise of the crushing humidity in the air. Ah, summer in south Louisiana. A season to be endured. But even the prospect of unbearably frizzy hair couldn’t dim my mood. I knew that I was on to something huge with this power-storage diagram.

I heard my cell phone ring from inside the house but felt no great compulsion to leap up and answer it. I wasn’t on call, and I wanted to enjoy my peace. I knew it wasn’t from the neuro center—I’d set that number to a distinct ring as soon as I’d had Tessa admitted there. Eventually the ringing stopped, and about half a minute later I heard the chime that told me I had voice mail.

It will wait, I thought stubbornly. I felt as if I hadn’t had a peaceful moment to myself in months. There was always something that had to be done, somewhere I needed to go. I needed to get into Tessa’s library, I needed to learn more about wards and arcane and essence, I needed to solve these murders.

I needed to relax and take time for myself. Even if it was for only a few minutes.

My phone rang again, followed by another voice-mail chime. I tightened my grip on the coffee mug, feeling my shoulders hunch up and my lip curl into a pout. Not fair. This was my time. I wasn’t on call.

Then I sighed. There were very few people who would call me for even boring mundane matters. And what if it was someone calling about Tessa from a different number?

I unfolded my legs and made my way back inside, oddly annoyed to see that the calls were from Ryan. Nothing to do with Tessa, after all. Not that I was annoyed to have Ryan calling me, but I realized that my worry about my aunt was increasing daily. I knew that I was pinning too many hopes on this ritual that Rhyzkahl gave me. I knew that I needed to face the reality that it might not work. Rhyzkahl had even said that the chances were slim. So I’m stubborn. Screw it.

I dialed my voice mail as I dumped the rest of my coffee out and rinsed my mug.

“Kara, call me.”

I rolled my eyes and pressed the delete button. Thanks for the details, Ryan.

The second message was even more informative. “Kara. Call me. It’s important.”

Great. I started to dial his number but was interrupted as the phone rang, with the caller ID showing—surprise, surprise—Ryan.

“I was calling you,” I said as I answered.

“I need you to come to North Highland Street in Gallardo,” he said without any preamble. “Murder—suicide. Supposedly.”

Gallardo was a small town just east of Beaulac, not large enough to have its own police force, which meant that the sheriff’s office handled any issues. “That’s outside my jurisdiction,” I informed him.

“I’m not asking you to do any work. But you need to come look at something. You know where North Highland is?”

“No, but that’s why I have GPS. Is this related to what I’ve been working on?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I want you to come out here,” he retorted, a touch of asperity in his voice.

“Smart-ass. Fine. I’m on my way.”

I was tempted to dawdle to get back at him for his unwillingness to part with information, but my curiosity won out. About forty-five minutes later I pulled onto a road running through a neighborhood that could only be described as “seedy.” Or perhaps “every other house a crack house,” if you wanted to get specific. There were a number of sheriff’s-office vehicles there, marked and unmarked. I parked my Taurus behind Ryan’s dark-blue Crown Victoria, then walked up to where the most sheriff’s deputies were clustered. I could see now why Ryan hadn’t bothered to give me a specific address. There was only one house on the street that bothered to have a house number displayed—and it was simply spray-painted on the black tarpaper that comprised the exterior. I gave nods and smiles to the deputies and detectives I recognized, then picked Ryan out of the crowd near the street and made my way over to him.

“So? What’s the deal?” I asked.

He jerked his head toward the house we stood in front of. It wasn’t the one with the spray-painted number on it, but that was about the only difference. The exterior was tarpaper, the roof was patched with a faded and tattered blue plastic tarp, and more than half the windows were broken. “Come and see.” He ducked under the crime-scene tape and I followed, after scrawling my name onto the scene log. He led me up to a porch of dubious stability, then we entered a gloomy interior. Ryan flicked on a halogen lamp that had been set up in the corner, giving me my first look at what he wanted me to see.