Fury of the Demon (Kara Gillian) Read online

  Even without othersight, the sheer magnitude of the arcane residue remained a constant distraction. I easily sensed the dance of the potency on her body, rhythmic, enthralling. I moved toward her again, welcoming the increasing tingle in my sigils as a reminder of what was done to me, and to her.

  Ryan remained at my side as I advanced. “No, not a street person, for sure.”

  I glanced around to make absolutely sure no one else was in the trailer with us or within earshot. “The sigils aren’t the same,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Ryan knew what I meant. “I haven’t had a good look at yours, but I’m inclined to agree.” He gestured to where the sigils crept down her legs. “Hers are on more of her body, too.”

  His voice sounded oddly distorted through the rising whir coming from the dead woman. Couldn’t he hear it? Like a piece of paper stuck in a fan, louder and louder. The rhythm of her sigil potency changed, strengthened, and I shifted to othersight to not miss a flicker of its fascinating, patterned beauty. I stepped over the curve of red chalk marking the circle, sucked in a breath as my scars, my sigils, began to pulse with fire, to match the cadence of hers.

  Kara? A distant voice queried.

  “Rowan,” I murmured, correcting him.

  Something in my mind snapped like a winter twig. Rowan? No! I summoned every shred of my will, focused. Everything crystallized into stark clarity. Potency coalesced in ruby coils between the woman’s breasts, like a snake poised to strike. I gritted my teeth, tried to throw myself back and away from the trap. Pain like molten metal seared through my scars, but I couldn’t budge.

  “Kara!” Ryan’s voice cut through the din like a chainsaw through cardboard. The whir crescendoed to a thundercrack, and the world flashed red as something hit me hard from the side, drove me into the wall and knocked the wind out of me.

  Ryan. His arms supported me, kept me from going down. Full understanding of what happened slammed through me, and I couldn’t be sure if the fire that writhed through my scars came from the heat of my fury or the effects of the failed trap. Breathing heavily, I shoved away from the wall and Ryan. Kara. Kara. I’m Kara, I thought fiercely—and without a shred of doubt, to my utter relief.

  “Everything okay in there?” a voice called out from beyond the open doors.

  Zack stepped to the edge of the trailer and stood casually, silhouetted against the daylight beyond. “Yep!” he said, tone amused and buoyant. “Just us clumsy Feds tripping over our own feet.”

  “A fucking Kara-trap,” I growled, jaw tight, eyes locked on the body. An attempt to activate Rhyzkahl’s contained virus. “That poor woman suffered and died for what? So the Mraztur can get their way? Can get their tool?” My breath came in harsh rasps. “The assholes still want to use me. It’s not happening.” I finally pygahed, allowed the anger to dull a bit, though it did nothing to ease the pain in my scars. I dragged my eyes away from the body, looked up. Ryan stood in front of me, face set in determination and his eyes full of worry. “You saved my ass,” I said. “You okay?”

  “I feel like I touched a live wire, but I’m good,” he said, concern easing somewhat.

  I pygahed again so I could deal with people who didn’t know about demons and lords and nefarious otherworldly plots. “Okay, let’s finish this and get out of here.” I willed myself to focus on the mundane aspects, moved to the open door of the semi. “Pellini,” I called. “Can we turn her?”

  “Let Baxter get his pics,” Pellini said, giving a jerk of his head at the tech. “Boudreaux and I need to see too.”

  I stepped back as the lanky crime scene tech swung easily into the truck, followed by Pellini and scrawny Boudreaux.

  “Already got my pics of all this,” the tech said with an easy smile. “Just waitin’ for y’all to finish your looksee.”

  “We’ve lookseed the front,” I told him. “Now we want to looksee the rest of her.”

  His smile didn’t flicker at my acerbic tone. “Not a prob! C’mon, detective,” he said to Boudreaux. “Turn the princess here so I can do my shots.”

  Boudreaux and Zack turned the woman over and settled her onto her stomach. Zack gently pulled her hair aside, showing the sigils that spread over her upper arms, back and buttocks, and down her legs to her calves. Beautiful and horrible. And only the barest trace of arcane residue now. Everything had coalesced for the trap and then dissipated.

  Zack gave me a nod, confirming that it was safe for me to approach. I hated to do it but I pulled on gloves, crouched and carefully eased her legs apart, then shone a flashlight at her vagina and anus. “God damn it,” I breathed. The plastic of the flashlight creaked as my grip spasmed on it. It was hideously obvious she’d been raped and sodomized.

  I closed her legs, stood. Pellini cursed under his breath, and when I glanced back at him I saw his eyes on the body, outrage and anger naked on his face.

  “I will see these motherfuckers fry,” he muttered to himself. I gave him a slight nod. That was one thing we could totally agree on.

  Pellini’s phone rang. He looked at the ID and headed out again.

  My gaze skimmed over her as I looked beyond the sigils. No ligature marks. Bruising at her wrists, thighs, and breasts. Held down, not tied for the rape. Immobilized with either drugs or arcane power for the sigil cuts. No obvious sign of what killed her. Possibly blood loss, though I had a feeling the cause of death was arcane in nature.

  Exhaling, I stepped back, tugged my gloves off. “Thanks for letting us have a look,” I told Boudreaux.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “You’ll tell me or Pellini if you get anything, right?” His voice held an almost desperate edge. I actually felt a little sorry for him. He knew in his gut that this was way out of their league.

  “Damn straight I will,” I replied with a firm nod as I lied through my teeth. Sorry, Boudreaux, but I don’t think you want most of what I might get.

  I stepped out into the sunlight and hopped down from the trailer bed, feeling as if darkness sloughed away from me as I left the confines of the semi. Ryan and Zack climbed down, each giving sighs of relief that echoed my sentiments.

  I disposed of my gloves in a biohazard bag, then walked over to Pellini as he tucked his phone away. “Thought we had an ID, but it didn’t pan out,” he told me then nodded toward the trailer. “Related to the Symbol Man?”

  “It might be a copycat,” I told him honestly, “but I think you have a brand new flavor of sicko on your hands.”

  “Lovely,” he muttered.

  “Any other leads on the ID?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No match on prints. I’m checking missing persons and other channels. Still no clue where she was killed.”

  “All right, we’ll work our angles as well. Thanks.” I moved to leave but the expectant look on Pellini’s face halted me.

  “So, did you, uh, come up with . . . anything?” he asked, and I had the strangest impression he really did mean anything. That was a first. Pellini had never sought my input before. And especially not for anything with even a whiff of strange.

  I gave him a guarded look. “Um. Well, we’re going to follow up on the—” I stopped short of saying sigils, “—patterns carved into her skin. I think those are significant.”

  He surprised me by listening intently, giving a nod, and then writing down what I said in his notebook. No lie. I could read his oddly neat handwriting from where I stood. Gillian: patterns of cuts may be significant, will follow up.

  Good grief. Had I come back to an alternate world version of Beaulac? I hid a smile at the thought.

  “Doc will probably get right on this,” he said, referring to Dr. Lanza, the coroner’s office pathologist. “I’ll let you know as soon as he does.”

  “I appreciate that.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “This is a weird one, that’s for sure.”

  He remained quiet for several seconds, then nodded. “Yeah.” For an instant it looked as if he wanted to ask me something. His face displayed an odd
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.”

  He picked up his laptop case, turned to go.

  “Hey, Ryan?” I looked over at him as he glanced back. “Thanks.” A faint smile shifted my scowl. “This whole thing would be worse if I didn’t have a friend like you.”

  He smiled and gave me a wink. “I’m one in a million, baby, and don’t you forget it.” And with that he left.

  I finished frying my multigrain sugar fest, dismally aware that it would have been far better on good old reliable squidgy white bread. That was going at the top of the grocery list.

  Still, even multigrain bread fried in butter and covered with honey and sugar wasn’t bad at all, and while I felt a teensy bit ill upon finishing it, I didn’t mind one bit, and my mood was somewhat improved.

  After cleaning up my mess, I looked at the clock and exhaled. Over six hours before Mzatal would be ready to be summoned. I wanted him here now, wanted to feel his strong reassurance that we would get through this—all of this—together. I put the clean skillet away, then headed down to the basement to check the storage diagram. It brought him one step closer, plus Ryan was down there, and I was ready for the company of a friend.

  Ryan glanced up from his laptop and gave me a smile which I managed to return.

  “I’m going to check the storage diagra
m,” I told him. “Nothing fancy, so it shouldn’t disturb you.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Do what you need to do.”

  I crouched beside the diagram, assessed it. Ryan sat with his laptop in a pretense of industry, but I felt his eyes on me. I gathered wisps of potency, funneled as much as I could into the diagram, then sealed it. It would take a while for more potency to be available for collection, sort of like water seeping slowly in through concrete. One more session would likely fill it enough for my needs.

  I let out a long soft breath. The routine focus of the work had eased the trauma of the morning a bit more.

  Ryan shifted and cleared his throat. I stood and turned to him, amused to see him looking a little guilty for watching me instead of working.

  “All done?” he asked.

  “For now,” I said, keeping my humor well hidden. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours and top it off.”

  Ryan nodded, his eyes still on me. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  I moved to the futon and sat beside him then leaned my head on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you too.”

  He set the laptop aside. “Like I said, it’s been a weird few months. Sometimes when I think of you being off with him, I get so pissed I do stupid shit like hit the wall.” He winced. “Or kick a concrete barricade. Not one of my brighter moments.” He dropped his head back. “Most of the time it’s not like that, though. I can think of you with him, and I’m . . . happy for you.”

  I had no doubt Szerain maintained the calm as best he could, which supported my suspicion that he didn’t have a problem with my relationship with Mzatal even if Ryan did. And those times when Szerain couldn’t resist the submersion enough to influence Ryan were the times when the Ryan aspect lashed out in jealous frustration.

  Submersion. Revulsion shuddered through me at the reminder. A few months ago I’d talked Mzatal into submerging me so that I could understand Ryan/Szerain better. It was a nightmare—like being placed in a shoulder-width vertical tube with cold, viscous gel up to your chin, then having a grate pushed down until you had to press your face against it to keep from drowning. To add to the torment, you were forced to witness yourself living and interacting, but with little direct control over it. Never sleeping. Never knowing the relief of oblivion.