Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian 6)

struggle as he grappled with some problem or issue, but then he shook his head and it was gone. “Yeah, weird,” he simply said, apparently deciding that, whatever the question, it was best left unasked.

“I’ll keep you posted on my end,” I said in an effort to cover the slightly awkward moment.

“Sure,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Thanks. You, uh, got the same cell number?”

“Yep, same number,” I said.

He fidgeted with his pen. “Hell, maybe we can grab a beer or something . . . sometime.”

I stared, stunned for a second before I managed to regain a semblance of composure. “Uh, my schedule’s pretty tight right now with the task force,” I lied. “But I’ll definitely keep it in mind.” I’d never grabbed a beer or done anything remotely resembling a casual-social-friendly thing with Pellini or Boudreaux. There’d been a shift of some sort in him, but with everything else going on, now wasn’t the time to start exploring it.

I abruptly realized it might have been a set up line for some insulting joke, and mentally braced myself for him to laugh it off with a not-so-veiled nasty remark or snide comment.

“Okay. Good,” he replied quickly, almost eagerly, which only increased my feeling of what the hell? “I’m always up for a beer,” he added. Then he coughed, shuffled his feet a bit as if abruptly embarrassed. “Anyway, uh, keep in touch.”

“Will do,” I managed, then forced a smile, turned, and walked quickly away, weirded out by more than just the dead body and Kara-trap. A friendly Pellini?

The fire had faded from my scars, but an annoying itch remained that no amount of physical scratching would relieve. I headed to Ryan’s car and waited for him and Zack to conclude whatever FBI stuff they needed to finish up. After a few minutes they joined me.

Ryan’s demeanor was somber. “That shit,” he jerked his head toward the truck trailer, “is so wrong.”

“On too many levels,” I agreed. The trap had been targeted at me, and it was a no-brainer to figure that the Mraztur knew I was back on Earth. After all, Kadir had been involved in sending me here. But how the hell had they sent word to Katashi’s people in time to have a trap set so quickly? I hadn’t left my property until this morning, so even surveillance on my house couldn’t explain it. Maybe one of Katashi’s people summoned a demon last night who told them? Certainly possible, though a lucky coincidence for them.

I scowled. Or not a lucky coincidence. While I was in the demon realm, Tessa and I had mailed letters back and forth via demon-messenger once a week or so. However, Katashi had lots of people working for him, including plenty of summoners, which meant the Mraztur could have a minor demon summoned every day to exchange messages. Anger rose again, but this time at myself. I should have anticipated something like this. Of course they’d have some means of frequent communication.

Score one for their team for setting the trap. Score one for me and my posse for foiling it. But score another for them for apparently having a better carrier-demon message system than us. Damn it.

“Game on, assholes” I muttered to myself. I gave Ryan a determined and humorless smile. “Thanks again for the save,” I said. “I’m heading home. I have work to do.”

Chapter 7

The drive home left me wrung out and bleak as both the nature of the murder and its purpose gnawed at me. And how the hell had the Mraztur managed to get an elaborate trap set for me so quickly? The body had most likely been planted in that semi-trailer mere hours after I arrived on Earth.

As I drove, I considered the possible explanations. Okay, so Katashi’s people could easily summon a demon to pass messages on a daily basis. Perhaps they really were lucky enough to get a demon-memo about my trip to Earth immediately after my arrival? That was the only explanation I could come up with for how they had enough time to set a complex rakkuhr trap for me—one that required ritualistic murder and skills far beyond my own.

Not that it really mattered how they accomplished it. They’d damn near succeeded, and would have if not for Ryan. I missed Mzatal, wanted him here—not to tell me everything was okay when we both knew it wasn’t, but to share this with him, get his perspective, his support, and simply feel his arms around me. This whole having a partner thing was damn nice, but I felt his absence keenly right now.

As I parked near the house, I glanced in the rear view mirror and caught sight of Ryan’s car rounding the first curve of the driveway. I didn’t wait for him but trudged into the house and then to the kitchen, determined to do whatever it took to shake the numb, sick horror that threatened to swamp me. I opened and closed cabinets, stared into the fridge looking for something besides fresh fruit or leftovers. Something . . . perfect.

Ryan came in and set his laptop bag on a chair by the table. I didn’t look over at him but I felt his eyes on me. “Isn’t there any plain ordinary squidgy white bread in the house?” I demanded.

“Uh, no,” Ryan said, a hint of apology his voice. “Zack gets a sprouted grain and a really good multigrain bread. On the top shelf of the fridge.”

Sprouted grain? Why would any sane person want plants growing in their sandwich? Did nobody realize what happened when you swallowed a watermelon seed? I didn’t want a friggin’ bread garden growing in my gut.

My scowl deepened until it felt as if my face would break. I pulled out the multigrain, laid two slices on a paper towel and squirted liberal amounts of honey on each one. “It’s a funny thing,” I said tightly. “Seeing a girl who’d been horribly raped, tortured by cutting sigils into her body, then murdered so she could be a lure to trap and subvert me, kind of kills my mood.”

“It sucks. I’m really sorry.” He let out a heavy breath. “Is there anything I can help with to follow up on the arcane part?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” I dumped a layer of brown sugar on the honey and pressed the two pieces of bread together. “I have no idea how to track that shit.” I directed my scowl at the newly made honey and brown sugar sandwich, then flicked a burner on and set a skillet on it. I rummaged in the fridge, found the butter, dropped a quarter stick in the skillet.

“It needs bacon on it,” Ryan offered.

I turned a scathing look on him. “That’s a completely different unhealthy comfort food sandwich,” I said with a curl of my lip. “It’s like when you add olives instead of little onions to vodka. Totally different drink.” I plopped the sandwich to fry in the butter.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said, his voice laden with concern. “I’m going downstairs to get started on my report. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Smart boy to retreat. He knew me well enough to know I needed a little space but not abandonment. “I will.”