Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian 6)

• • •

Three hours later I stretched awake with no remembered dreams and no sense of time hav

ing passed. After a quick shower and a cup of coffee, I felt more than ready to get back into the hunt.

My first move was to transfer case files and Tracy’s journals from the living room to the dining table. I doubted the guys had meant for me to christen the new table with work, but it was loads better than the sofa or kitchen table for spreading out.

I worked and munched on Jekki-made finger sandwiches while I tried to glean more useful information from Tracy’s notes. After about an hour my eyes started glazing over, and I pushed back from the table with a groan. Out in the living room I heard Bryce and Jekki talking.

“Hey, Bryce,” I called out. “You busy with anything right now?”

Bryce came in through the kitchen, looking sharp and dangerous in his polo shirt and shoulder holster. “Nope. Paul’s up and working, and there’s no more I can do on the camera system until we get those quotes back. Whatcha need?”

“I need another set of eyes,” I told him. “I’d like to know if there are any more references to locations in these journals. Anything is good, but particularly Texas and the Southeast.”

“I can handle that.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “Slide the pile this way.”

I shoved one of the stacks toward him, a miscellany of notes, case files, journals and photos. “Go wild.”

We worked in silence for a while, each absorbed in our own world, neither of us announcing any great discoveries. I finally sat back and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Damn it. This shit gives me a headache.”

Bryce tossed the journal in his hand aside and picked up the next one, then put it down again. Frowning, he tugged an overflowing photo folder from mid-stack and slid an eight by ten from it. “Shit,” he murmured.

I glanced over. “Got something?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” he said, his brow furrowed. “What are these drawings?”

I took a closer look at what he held: a crime scene photo from over a year ago of the office of murdered Greg Cerise, with sketches of people, demons, and other-worldly settings plastering the walls. “Greg Cerise drew all of those,” I told him. “He had a knack for finding people who were arcanely gifted.” I pulled out some photos that had better views of the sketches. “I think he either visited the demon realm at some point or he was awfully damned prescient, because his drawings are dead on.” I made a face. “His dad, Peter Cerise, turned out to be the Symbol Man and used Greg’s drawings to find his victims.”

“Like Farouche finds talent,” Bryce observed.

“Yeah, I guess it’s something like that.” I lifted my chin toward the photo in his hand. “Why did that one grab your attention?”

“You have any better photos of this sketch here?” He tapped one of the drawings in the photo, and a chill went through me. Rhyzkahl.

“Sure. Hold on.” I did my best to keep my face neutral, pulled three comics from another pile. Shattered Realm, the graphic novel written and drawn by Greg Cerise. I found a page with a good representation and dropped it on the table in front of Bryce.

He stared at the page—a full-color of Rhyzkahl in armor looking out over the battlements of a castle. He sat back in the chair. “Jesus. Mega-Fabio.”

“Bryce, spill,” I ordered.

“He’s a goddamn demonic lord, isn’t he.”

I stood. “That’s Rhyzkahl,” I said, my voice flat and hard. “Tell me how you know him.”

Bryce shoved up from the table. “I’ve seen him several times, once as close to him as I am to you. He’s in with Farouche. Big time.”

My heart pounded unevenly. “How? When? When did you see him?”

“Shit, I don’t know the exact dates,” he said with a shake of his head. “Now it makes sense. He doesn’t feel at all like Mzatal or Elofir, but he has his own aura just as strong. Shit! I should’ve realized it sooner.”

“It’s okay. Just tell me when,” I said, unable to hide the urgency in my voice. “Ball park. Anything.”

His mouth firmed. “The first time was in the spring last year. Not sure exactly when. He showed up at the compound gates at about three a.m., demanded to see Farouche, and did. That’s unheard of.”

Cold sweat pricked the small of my back. “Spring. You said it was night. Do you remember anything in particular about it?”

He frowned. “Not much. It was pleasant and clear, and there was a big full moon hanging low over the house.”