I left Crawford and Jill by the body and headed toward Captain Turnham. He stepped away from the other detectives as I approached, full attention focusing on me. A tall, thin black man with arms and legs that seemed too long for his body, he’d been a police officer in New Orleans for fifteen years before moving out to “the boonies.” He’d been with the Beaulac PD for almost ten years now. He seemed humorless and dour to those who didn’t know him, but the people who worked with and for him knew that he was merely relentlessly dedicated and overly meticulous. Even now, at three a.m., he was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and khaki pants with creases sharp enough to slice bread, while every other detective on the scene was in jeans and PD T-shirts.
“Morning, Gillian.” Captain Turnham looked down at me over his wire-frame glasses.
“Morning, Captain,” I said with a small nod. “Thanks for letting me come out on this.”
His lips twitched into something vaguely resembling a smile. “I’m going to give this one to you, since right now you know the most about the Symbol Man cases.”
I stared at him for several heartbeats, certain that I’d misheard him. “You want me to work with Crawford and the others on this?”
He shook his head. “No. I want you to take this case.”
I was suddenly insanely grateful that Crawford had remained by the body. I didn’t even want to think what his reaction would be to this. “Sir, you do remember that I have no experience with working homicides?”
“And you never will unless you work one,” he replied with calm logic.
“Well, yes, but—”
He held up his hand to cut me off. “Gillian, you’ll be fine. You’ve proven yourself with your white-collar crime cases, which is why your transfer to Violent Crimes was approved. And it’s not like you’re going to be on your own with this. Crawford and Boudreaux can help point you in the right direction, and I plan on pushing the chief about forming a task force.”
“Yes, sir.” Holy shit. He really is throwing me a Symbol Man case! I gave him my best effort at a confident smile, trying to avoid looking either cocky or nervous. I’d heard that Captain Turnham liked to throw new detectives into the deep end. I just hadn’t expected to be forced to swim so quickly.
“You’re a good detective,” he continued. “You’ll do just fine.” Then in the next breath he said, “But don’t relax too much. It’s in our jurisdiction, which means if we do get a task force, I’m going to make sure you’re the lead.”
Are you fucking serious? I thought. “I appreciate the opportunity,” I said instead, keeping my voice even and calm. It was a damn good thing that he couldn’t hear the racing of my pulse. Holy shit! I’m the fucking lead on a Symbol Man case!
Captain Turnham nodded toward the other detectives. “Tell Crawford to get you caught up. I need to go talk to the chief.”
“Sure thing, Captain.” Oh, yeah, this would be interesting.
Crawford and Jill walked up to me as soon as the captain left. “So, what’s his take on it?” Crawford asked.
I turned to him, making an extra effort to maintain a cool and professional demeanor, even though I wanted to jump up and down in excitement or do something else that would have been completely inappropriate on a murder scene. “Well, he thinks it looks enough like a Symbol Man case to treat it as such.”
He shrugged and nodded. “Okay, makes sense. I’ll need you to fill me in on details as soon as you can.”
“Yeah. About that.”
He looked at me expectantly.
“Captain Turnham said that the case is mine,” I added in a rush.
His eyes widened in shock. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Yeah, he wasn’t one to hide his emotions. “Actually, no, I’m not fucking kidding you.” I kept my tone cordial but firm. “He said I need the experience, and since I have the most knowledge of the Symbol Man cases—”
“You read through the case files a couple of weeks ago,” he exclaimed, face reddening. “That doesn’t make you a fucking expert!”
I blinked, briefly shocked by the force of his reaction. Then I recovered and narrowed my eyes. Screw cordial. I leaned forward, lowering my voice and drawing on my experience in dealing with demons to keep from losing my careful composure. “It’s not my fucking fault, Crawford,” I said, nearly snarling. “I didn’t ask for it, and if it bugs you that fucking much, then take it up with the fucking captain!”
He looked at me for several heartbeats, expression stony. “The security guard who found the body is ninety if he’s a day and is waiting to be interviewed at the front office,” he finally snapped. “You have no other witnesses. Have fun.” With that, he turned and stalked off.
I watched him go, clenching my hands to keep them from trembling.
“Okay, he’s a dick,” Jill said quietly from beside me.
“Yep,” I replied, seething. Sure, Captain. They’re just bending over backward to help me out.
Jill gave me a rueful smile. “You’ll be fine,” she continued. “If a moron like Crawford can be a reasonably competent Homicide detective, you should kick ass at this shit.”
I let out a weak laugh. “Thanks. Actually, I’m pretty excited.” I’d never in a million years imagined that the case would be handed to me, but now that the initial shock was starting to wear off, I wasn’t about to let anyone take it away. Three years ago I’d been just a road cop, working the perimeter of a body dump like this one, not knowing if I’d ever have a chance to dig into why there were arcane traces on that body. I’d even begun to doubt what I’d seen and wonder if it had been a fluke.
But now I knew. The Symbol Man was doing some sort of arcane work and, like it or not—ready or not—I really was the best person for the job.
Jill laughed. “I know that look. You’re hooked in now.”
“Yeah. I am,” I said with a grin. “I’m gonna get this fucker.”
“Good deal. You tell me if you need anything. Don’t be proud.”
“I will. I won’t.”
Jill gave me a thumbs-up, then walked off to speak to the coroner’s office personnel. I leaned against the metal building of the main office, watching as the body was carefully gathered up into a black plastic body bag.
I would definitely summon tomorrow night. There were a number of demons who could probably help me. Perhaps Rysehl? He was just a fourth-level demon, a luhrek, resembling a cross between a goat and a dog with the hindquarters of a lion. He was also a much weaker demon than Kehlirik, which meant that he would be considerably easier to summon. But Rysehl was usually a very cooperative creature and a good resource for esoteric information, despite being merely a luhrek. I could think of several questions to ask him about the kinds of arcane activities that could leave those types of traces on a body.
I pushed off the building. Screw Crawford, I thought. I am the best detective for this case, and I’m gonna prove it.
THE DEAD BOLT ON THE FRONT DOOR SLID HOME WITH a soft click, the last step in my preparations for the summoning.
I’d nearly changed my mind about going through with it. After leaving the wastewater plant, I’d gone to the station for several hours to do preliminary legwork and write up my initial report, but by early afternoon I could hardly keep my eyes open—not that surprising once I realized I was operating on zero sleep.
I’d finally given up on coherent thought and headed home to grab a nap, staying awake on the drive home only by keeping the window open and singing along loudly to bad country music. By the time I’d crawled into my bed, I was seriously doubting my ability to summon again, even a minor demon. But six hours of sleeping like the dead did wonders for my energy level, and by midnight I felt ready to go.
I wandered through my house, the usual excitement twining with the usual nerves as I made certain that the house was secure. All of the various mundane tasks were complete. I’d closed the gate at the end of my driveway, checked and secured all the windows—which included nailing several boards over
the broken window—then locked all the doors, double-checking everything compulsively. I’d learned the hard way last night that a locked door wouldn’t do much to keep an intruder out, so for tonight I’d added just a tweak of power around my house.
Arcane work could be pretty tiring, which was why I seldom did much outside of summonings. But, after last night’s near disaster, I had to grudgingly admit that I needed to expend the energy. I wasn’t exactly highly skilled at crafting arcane wardings, which meant that it took me nearly an hour to pull together a small protection that would cause anyone approaching the house to experience feelings ranging from mild fear to terror—an arcane version of a subsonic frequency, and hopefully just enough to make a person think twice about trying to get inside.
The house was still spotless from top to bottom from the deep scouring I’d given it before my summoning of the reyza. I wasn’t in the regular habit of keeping my house in pristine condition, but the messes and piles of clutter could harbor unwelcome pockets of energy, or so my aunt Tessa always said—though I suspected that was probably just a way for her to get me to clean the place up at least once a month. It was tough to motivate myself to tame the clutter, since I didn’t exactly encourage visitors. I kept it clean—after all, this was the South, and I’d be neck deep in bugs if I didn’t—but my dirty laundry usually ended up on the floor, and my bed got made only once a week when I changed the sheets.
I owned just over ten acres out here, and most of it remained woods. My house was smack in the middle of the property, with only about a hundred-foot radius around the structure cleared of thick forest and underbrush, though there were still plenty of trees around the house to shade it beautifully all year long. The house itself was a single-story Acadian with a steeply pitched roof, high ceilings, and a broad porch that extended across the entire front. The high ceilings also made it hard as shit to heat in the winter, but I had long ago accepted that electric blankets were made for just that reason. Besides, in south Louisiana it didn’t get all that cold. The house was close to one hundred years old, with walls and ceilings that had been made with precise tongue-and-groove construction. The exterior was supposed to be a dusky blue, but it was also unfortunately in dire need of a new paint job and had a rather mottled appearance where the white of the old paint showed through.
But the best feature of the house was its elevation. It sat on enough of a hill that I was able to have a basement, though not so high up that it could be seen above the surrounding trees from the highway. Houses with basements were practically nonexistent in this region, and the large basement of this house was absolutely perfect for the kind of arcane activities that my aunt and I dealt in. Aunt Tessa had converted the attic in her own house into a summoning chamber, but she frequently moaned that it wasn’t as good as a basement. It was a lot harder to make an attic noiseproof and lightproof, and the earth that surrounded a basement helped soak up excess arcane resonance. Plus, the heat in any attic in the South was damn near unbearable in the summer.
I returned to the foyer, compulsively checking everything again and quietly pleased with how nice it looked. I could have people over every now and then, the thought intruded. Maybe a crawfish boil in the backyard for people from work? It really was a lovely little house, and there was a part of me that wanted to show it off. I had dim childhood memories of my parents throwing parties and having people over—before my mother got sick. But neither of them had dealt with the arcane, I reminded myself. They’d had no reason to be secretive and private.
I had plenty of reason. I’d have to scrub the shit out of the basement to make sure there was no evidence of a summoning diagram. I grimaced. And hide all my implements. Would anyone come, anyway? I had plenty of casual friends from work, but Jill was probably the only one I felt any real “friendship” toward, and I could count on zero hands the times we’d hung out together outside of work. Baby steps, Kara, I chided myself. Make some friends, then worry about throwing a party.
I scowled and pulled my focus back to the task at hand. I could worry about my social life some other time. I checked one more time that the curtains completely covered the windows, then headed to the hallway door that led to the basement. I paused in front of it, taking a deep breath and rolling my head on my neck to work the tension out. I was good at this, I reminded myself. This was going to be a very low-level summoning, and I’d performed plenty of them successfully. I’d worked my ass off for the past decade to learn everything I could about summoning demons. I knew the chants, the bindings, the names. I’d studied rituals dating back centuries, when it was first discovered that there were people who were genetically gifted with the ability to open a portal between this world and another—a world of creatures that came to be known as demons. Last year I’d even taken leave from work and scraped together the money to spend two months in Japan, studying under the summoner who had been my aunt’s mentor—a waste of time and money, I later decided. The convergence had been too weak to summon anything really interesting, and Tessa’s mentor—a wisp of a man who looked old enough to have been around for the first summoning—was a rude, condescending asshole.
I slipped off my bathrobe, folded it neatly, and set it against the wall in the hallway, despite my usual habit of dropping clothing wherever I happened to be. For the thousandth time I reminded myself that I needed to put a hook on the door for just this reason. I opened the basement door and walked naked down the stairs, skin prickling with goose bumps at the slight chill that lingered in the air despite the fire I’d lit earlier. It was spring closing in on summer, but the basement held the cold fiercely at times. I pulled the waiting clothing off the hook at the bottom of the stairs—drawstring pants and a loose shirt made from a gray buttery-soft silk. I’d never bought into the whole flowing-silken-robes thing—far better to be free from distractions, able to move about.
I stepped off the stairs, bare feet chilling against the concrete of the floor. The basement was huge—almost the same square footage as the main floor of my house. There was a fireplace in the south wall that tended to get a lot of use, since the basement stayed cool in the summer and became downright frigid in the winter. A couple of years ago, I’d converted the third of the basement that contained the fireplace into a mini-office, carpeted in a plush deep-red shag that only barely avoided looking like it belonged in a bordello. A heavy oak table and a comfortable wingback chair that I’d scored at an estate sale completed the ensemble. The other two-thirds of the basement floor was smooth concrete, unmarked except for the intricate and large circular diagram I had laboriously chalked out earlier.
I rubbed my arms as I scanned the room. The only light came from the fireplace and a few low candles placed around the circle, but it was enough. It wasn’t as if I would need light to read anything. There wouldn’t be time to read if things went wrong.
I’d already put my materials out, the implements I would need set in precise alignment outside the complex diagram. I was reusing the diagram I’d created for my summoning of Kehlirik, with the changes needed for the different-level demon that I would be calling. A diagram for a twelfth-level demon was a large and complicated construction that usually took me a good three hours to complete. The changes needed to summon the luhrek Rysehl had taken only twenty minutes.
Placing myself so that the fire was at my back, I moved to the edge of the diagram, careful not to touch it with my feet or clothing.
I took a deep breath, allowing myself to bask briefly in the rich and warm contentment that I found in summoning. I was in control during a summoning ritual. If something went wrong, I had no one but myself to blame. I knew what the consequences were, and even though they could be dire and extreme—especially if a demon’s honor was somehow impugned—the end reward of having a demon at your service was worth the risk and occasional pain. Performing the rituals and dealing with the demons was headier than any drug—something I knew from brash experience, unfortunately.
But this summoning tonight was a s
traightforward one. Not even a tenth as difficult as the one from last night. I knew better than to be cocky—I bore a few scars from summonings that had not gone well—but I was quite familiar with Rysehl, and I knew what to expect from him.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I lifted my arms and began, my voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls as I spoke the words. Working carefully, I began by laying the shields on the room itself, then progressed to setting the wards on the diagram.
I kept my arms up as I chanted, finishing the wards, then starting in on the bindings, setting them carefully so that I could trigger them with the merest thought. Those could not fail. Demons were bound until suitable terms could be reached—an agreement on an offering in return for the demon’s service. Once terms were set, a demon’s honor wouldn’t allow it to break the agreement, but until that time the bindings kept me safe from claws and teeth and arcane perils. This was especially important when summoning the higher-level demons—the reyza and syraza and zhurn—where you had to be utterly certain that the terms were set before releasing the bindings. The higher demons did not like being summoned. In fact, some utterly despised it, submitting only after intense and protracted battle with the bindings that the summoner had in place.
Finally I lowered my arms and assessed. The first phase—the protections—was finished. I could see in my peripheral othersight the bindings and wards that wove throughout the room.
That was the easy part.
Now to summon the demon.
I took a deep breath and began to chant. There was no turning back now.
A wind rose from nowhere, swirling about my legs and teasing my hair. The fire jumped and popped in the fireplace but I continued to chant steadily, holding my concentration. The diagram began to glow more brilliantly, until the light from the floor rivaled the fireplace.
The wind grew cold and swirled angrily around the room, whipping the words from my lips and flinging them into the forming portal. The light from the chalk patterns gleamed fiendishly, near blinding in its incandescence. The wind shrieked as I raised my voice, nearly shouting the words, never stopping or pausing. If I stopped, the portal would consume me, sucking me into a nether region of neither death nor life. The wind swirled into a screeching crescendo, then hovered there.
Mark of the Demon Page 4
