Vengeance of the Demon (Kara Gillian 7)
I looked over Bryce’s shoulder at the small display. A St. Long Parish Sheriff’s Office cruiser and a dark Chevy Impala idled in the driveway beyond the gate. Detective O’Connor stood by the intercom, looking very official in his sunglasses and starched dress shirt.
My stomach lurched. It was really happening. “Oh, well, so much for a restful evening!” I said, being flippant in an attempt to maintain a cool demeanor. Not that anyone bought my act, least of all me. I pressed the intercom button. “Hi, Detective, how can I help you today?”
O’Connor lifted the papers in his hand and glared into the camera. “Kara Gillian, I have a warrant for your arrest. If you refuse to come out and give yourself up, we’ll have no choice but to make entry by force.”
“I understand, Detective,” I said. An arrest warrant gave him legal right to make entry onto my property and into my house if necessary to make the arrest. Thankfully, the aversions discouraged him
from coming through the gate to knock on my door with a sledgehammer. However, if I stalled, he was tough-willed enough to bull his way through the arcane barriers. That would spell disaster if he tripped any of the more dangerous protection wards, and I didn’t want anyone getting hurt. “I’ll be at the gate in less than five minutes.”
Protest formed on his face then faded. Good. I’d been agreeable enough that he lacked sufficient motivation to overcome the aversions. “Five minutes.”
I spun away from the display and jogged to my bedroom. Bryce followed and paused in the doorway. “What’s the plan?” he asked with a frown as I dug through my dresser drawers.
Well, I thought, first I’ll go throw up, and then I’ll curl up on the bathroom floor. “Hiding or running would be pointless and bring heat down on everyone here,” I said instead. “My best move is to cooperate.” I pulled out a fluffy hooded sweatshirt and slipped it on over my tank top.
Bryce eyed me with bafflement as I fluffed my hair out from beneath the collar. “You do know it’s the middle of summer, right?”
“I sure do.” I stripped off my watch and emptied my pockets, then reluctantly pulled the damaged ring from my finger and placed it in my jewelry box. “Holding cells are damn cold. Bond won’t be set until tomorrow at the earliest, and I don’t want to freeze my ass off all night.”
Pellini joined Bryce in the doorway and gave a nod of agreement. “I know a lawyer who won’t ask a lot of questions. I’ll give him a call.”
“Thanks.” I blew out a breath then squared my shoulders. No sense putting this off any longer. Hell, maybe I could take a nap in jail. Yeah, right. “Now then, who wants to give me a ride to the gate?”
• • •
I had to hand it to Detective O’Connor. Though obviously frustrated by my refusal to divulge information relevant to his case, he never once crossed the line into asshole territory. I appreciated that, especially since I sympathized with his plight. He had a job to do and a murder to solve. I couldn’t fault him for his commitment to do everything in his power to accomplish that. I, of course, was committed to avoiding prison on Earth or exile in the demon realm.
The deputy with O’Connor was a blond woman with a no-nonsense expression and “Harper” on her nametag. She patted me down and handcuffed me with brisk efficiency. I tried not to think about the number of times I’d done the same to an arrestee—never ever thinking I’d one day be on the other side of it. Without a smile or unneeded word, she seatbelted me into the back seat of her car and transported me to the parish jail. I remained silent for the duration of the ride, not because I was stoic, but because I didn’t trust myself to speak. I’d convinced myself that I was mentally prepared for this, but the reality was a vicious kick in the gut, and I balanced on the razor edge of control. Ex-cop under arrest was humiliating enough, but ex-cop under arrest who burst into tears on the way to jail would be worse than everything else combined.
Deep breaths and careful control got me through the urge to dissolve into a sobbing meltdown. By the time Harper escorted me to the booking area at the jail I’d regained enough composure to endure being processed in—searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and at last placed in a holding cell.
Concrete benches ran the length of three walls. Near the door a metal toilet and sink were tucked into a shallow alcove that offered zero privacy. The cell was as overly air-conditioned as I’d expected, and I silently applauded my sweatshirt wisdom.
I settled on the bench to my right then took unobtrusive stock of the other five women in the cell and tried to guess what they’d been arrested for. Two in their late thirties or early forties lay curled up on my bench, either asleep or pretending to be. Theft or Issuing Worthless Checks. A girl dressed as if she’d spent the day at the lakefront sniffled on the bench against the back wall. Eighteen if she was a day. Underage Driving Under the Influence, I decided. Across from me, a haggard-faced woman stared at nothing with defeat in her eyes. Possession of a Controlled Substance—no-brainer there. And not far from her, a woman in her mid-twenties sat in a stiff and scowly posture that radiated anger. Aggravated Battery, hands down.
Then again, how was I to know? Maybe every single one of them had been arrested for creating human-animal hybrids. I doubted any of them looked at me and thought, “Homicide.”
I leaned my head back against the cinderblock wall, crossed my arms over my chest, closed my eyes, and settled in for a long and boring night. Voices rose and fell in the hallway, and a cart with a clattering wheel rolled past. A door shut with a heavy clang followed by a stream of curses. Sweat and piss lurked beneath the acrid tang of industrial cleaner, and above it all drifted the old-cabbage scent of low-quality cafeteria food.
“Hey, Princess!”
Tensing for a confrontation, I opened my eyes to find Angry Chick focused on the sniveling girl. “Stop your fucking whining before I stop it for you,” she snapped at Young Thing, which did nothing except make the poor girl cower and cry harder.
Angry Chick rose to her feet. Young Thing’s eyes widened in terror, and she let out a thin panicked wail.
“Leave her alone,” I said, using the same mild and even tone Bryce used in stress situations. “She’s probably never been arrested before. I bet you were scared the first time you got hooked.”
Angry Chick rounded on me with a teeth-baring snarl. “You trying to say I’m a habitual offender, bitch?”
So much for being reasonable. Fine. I could play it her way. “Well, you sure are familiar with the term ‘habitual offender.’”
Angry Chick let out a growl of rage and took a step toward me, fists clenched.
“That’s a bad idea,” I said.
She hesitated, no doubt trying to understand why her subconscious told her I was a potential threat when I looked like an easy mark. I continued to regard her steadily. I’d locked gazes with far more powerful creatures than this woman.
To my dismay, instead of backing down as I’d hoped, she narrowed her eyes. “I know you,” she said. Dread flickered in my gut at the hatred in her voice. “You’re a cop.”