Blood of the Demon

  “You look like shit,” I said, as I pulled out into traffic.

  “You’re one to talk,” he replied. I glanced at him sharply. It hadn’t been delivered with any tone of joking, but I bit back my reply. He obviously didn’t feel well, and there was no point in me overreacting.

  I maintained my silence as I drove back to my house, and when I pulled into my driveway I saw that he was asleep. At least I hoped he was asleep. I felt a quick stab of fear that something awful had happened, but his chest still rose and fell in a nicely reassuring manner.

  I parked the car in front of the house and gently nudged his shoulder, really hoping I could wake him up, since I didn’t want to think about carrying him into the house. But his eyes snapped open as soon as I touched him.

  “We’re at my house. Do you want to crash here for a bit?”

  He rubbed at his face, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

  He seemed steadier on his feet as he walked to the house and up the stairs. The twenty-minute nap he’d taken in the car had obviously helped a lot. “Are you hungry?” I asked as I headed to the kitchen.

  He hesitated, then nodded again. “I should probably eat something.”

  I searched through my fridge for something quick and easy. I finally settled on a microwaved mini-pizza. I half-expected him to make a crack about my cooking, but he didn’t even bat an eyelash, merely wolfed it down in about three bites. I was relieved to see some color come back to his face after he ate, though he still had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. I thought I had the monopoly on those.

  I stuck another pizza in the microwave, and when I turned back around he had an empty wine bottle in his hand, looking at it with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. I groaned inwardly.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t have a drinking problem. I was trying to relax enough to get some sleep last night. And for the record, that was emptied over the course of about a week.”

  His eyes lifted to mine. “I never said you had a drinking problem.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I took the bottle out of his hand and dumped it in the trash, wincing as it clanked harshly against the two other bottles in there already.

  “My, aren’t we touchy.”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. “You’re right, I am.” I busied myself with getting the second pizza out of the microwave and putting it on his plate. “Sorry.”

  He lifted the pizza and blew on it to cool it. “Did you summon again Saturday night?”

  I blinked at the non sequitur. “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool.” An oddly strained silence fell for another minute or so while he ate. At least he was looking better. I expected him to ask me more about my summoning, but if he wasn’t going to ask, I wasn’t going to offer.

  Finally he leaned back in the chair and pushed his empty plate away. “Okay, much better,” he said, giving me a more normal smile. “So, what did you summon that wears boots?”

  I stared at him, then twisted to look at the floor by the back door. Great. A damn near perfect boot print. Shit. Teach me to mop my floors more often. “I … uh, I summoned Rhyzkahl.”

  He frowned at me. Or, rather, he gave me a facial expression that was about ten times as frowny as a frown. “How the fuck? Why the fuck?”

  I forced a laugh, trying not to look guilty, which was how I felt for some reason. “I know, I know. But he wanted me to summon him, and I was given his oath that I would not be harmed.”

  He lowered his head and looked at me, gaze penetrating. “What did he want?”

  “He, uh … wants me to be ‘his’ summoner.”

  His expression didn’t change. “And how does that work?”

  I briefly explained what I knew, especially pointing out the bit about how he would still be constrained by the summoning protocols. “I don’t think he’s been to this sphere for centuries, except for the botched summonings and the time I called him, and he didn’t exactly get to see the sights then,” I said.

  Ryan snorted. “I’m trying to picture him walking through a mall.”

  I laughed. “That would turn some heads.”

  “He’d probably get scooped up by a model talent scout.”

  “Right! I can see him on the cover of GQ.”

  “Yeah, pulling the head off someone like a fly.”

  The comment, delivered so evenly, shocked me to silence.

  “Don’t forget what he is, Kara,” Ryan said in a low voice, gaze steady on me and all trace of humor gone.

  Annoyance surged through me. “I know what he is, Ryan,” I replied, more calmly than I expected. “I’m the summoner, remember?” I couldn’t believe that he was trying to warn me about demons. I’d been summoning for ten years, and he’d never even seen a demon before a couple of months ago.

  “I remember. And that’s why I worry about you.” He stood, chair scraping on the tile floor. “Yes, he saved your life, and I’m deeply grateful for that. But you were the one who told me that the demons never do anything for the sake of being nice. I just don’t want to see you putting yourself in a position of being bound to him.”

  I could feel myself scowling, even though I wanted to show myself as calm and cool. “Look, I’m being careful. I’m considering everything.”

  The troubled expression on his face etched a bit deeper. “Just … shit, don’t let him get too … close to you, all right?”

  It was getting harder to keep my expression neutral. “Too close to me how?” I wasn’t so sure I was as successful in keeping my voice even.

  He scowled. “Fucking shit, Kara. Do I have to spell it out? I’m worried that you’re going to fall for that gorgeous face and body and forget what he is, and that you’ll succumb to him and end up in his thrall and forget—” He bit off whatever it was he was about to say and looked away, an expression of pain flashing across his features so quickly that I wasn’t even sure that’s what it was. He took a shuddering breath. “And forget … who you are,” he finished.

  I worked moisture back into my mouth. “I find that a bit insulting,” I said carefully, measuring each word as it came out. “I know who I am.”

  He growled something under his breath and jammed his hands down into his pockets. “Shit, you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” I said. “You think that I’ll fall into his arms and then forget that he’s a demon and rush to do his bidding and lose all self-control. End up in his thrall, right?”

  His eyes flashed with anger and something else I couldn’t interpret. “No. Yes. Shit. Kara, come on. I’m sorry, but the thought of you and that creature together …” He gave his head a shake, as if to rid it of an unpleasant image. “It makes me want to throw up.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Holy shit! Are you jealous?”

  He shot me a look of such pure menace that I took a step back. In the next heartbeat it was gone, replaced by an expression of frustration, making me doubt what I’d seen. “I’m not jealous,” he spat. “Don’t be stupid.”

  I stared at him for about ten seconds. Then I turned away and busied myself pointlessly with cleaning up the counter. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to be stupid. Wouldn’t want you to hang out with someone who might lose every ounce of brain they have if they look at a gorgeous guy.” And why can’t you be jealous? I added silently, throat tight. Just a little?

  “Ah, fuck, Kara.” He sighed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I industriously wiped the counter down. I didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want him to see that I was blinking furiously to keep the damn tears back. When had I become so fucking weak?

  After several seconds of silence, I heard him sigh again. “I need to take care of some stuff. Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, rinsing the sponge out in the sink, twisting it harder than necessary to wring it out. “Are you feeling better?”

  There was a brief pause, then, “Yeah. I’m f
ine. I’m good to drive.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  He was silent again for several seconds. “Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “See you later.”

  I didn’t look back until I heard the front door close. Then I stopped blinking and allowed the tears to come.

  Chapter 16

  AFTER RYAN LEFT, I ALLOWED MYSELF A HALF HOUR OF sniveling, then washed my face, changed clothes, and buried myself in work—my tried and true way to avoid thinking about things that upset me. Or, rather, I tried to bury myself in work. Unfortunately there really wasn’t much work that needed doing. I was already caught up on my paperwork, and I didn’t feel like driving over to my aunt’s house to get started on the arcane research I needed to do.

  I finally went down to the basement and set up the next stage of the ritual to call Tessa’s essence back. This stage required more than an hour of channeling potency into the diagram, which ended up having the welcome benefit of tiring me out. I needed only two glasses of wine to fall asleep.

  Yet, even exhausted, I still had chaotic and unsettling dreams of Ryan and Rhyzkahl. I couldn’t remember much beyond a few snatches of scenes—images of the two facing each other in arcane conflict, surrounded by demons.

  I woke late, mood not improved when my coffeemaker refused to turn on. I tried a variety of methods to make the damn thing work—including yelling, crying, and cursing—but it still stubbornly refused to produce coffee.

  I finally gave up and headed to the coffee shop and its overpriced product. Without coffee, the day had a good chance of sucking, and I really didn’t need any more suck in my life at the moment.

  I FUMBLED IN the glove box of the Taurus for sunglasses, jamming them onto my face with one hand while trying to adjust the sun visor with the other. The mid-morning sun speared relentlessly through the windshield at the absolute perfect height to evade the sun-blocking powers of the visor. I had the air conditioner cranked all the way up, but the air it produced was only slightly below tepid and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I’d briefly experimented with driving with the windows down, but even at ten in the morning the outside air was hot enough to make that pointless. At least the minimal air-conditioning wouldn’t turn my hair into a tangled mess the way open windows would. And since the day’s agenda involved driving down to Mandeville to interview Elena Sharp, I figured it would be best if I avoided arriving with bride-of-Frankenstein hair.

  Sure, she can pop on up to Beaulac to lurk outside Brian Roth’s funeral, I thought sourly, but she’s still going to make me drive to Mandeville to interview her? And I was willing to bet that the AC in her car worked pretty damn well. On the other hand, the trip to Mandeville would conveniently keep me out of the office for the rest of the day. That was a win.

  The drive to Mandeville was uneventful, and it didn’t take me long to find the complex where she lived. I pulled in and realized quickly that even though it wasn’t a three-story house on the shore of Lake Pearl, Elena Sharp’s new residence was by no means a mere apartment. From the gated entrance—complete with a security guard who actually checked my credentials—to the lushly landscaped surroundings, the entire complex screamed wealth.

  I spied Elena Sharp’s distinctive red Mercedes, parked between a Lexus and a BMW. I stuffed my grungy Taurus into a spot next to an Audi, then walked down a path shaded with flowering crape myrtles to her unit. I rang the doorbell and heard the deep, sonorous tones vibrate beyond the oak and glass door, followed by the sound of heels on marble. A few seconds later the door was opened by Elena Sharp.

  She was a few inches taller than me and wearing heels as well, which gave her enough of a height advantage that she was most definitely looking down at me. She wore a strapless mid-calf-length formfitting dress that molded over a flat stomach, narrow hips, and generous tits that I had a feeling were not factory originals. On her the dress looked elegant and expensive. On me it would have looked tawdry and pathetic. Actually, on me it would have looked stolen as well, since I figured it probably cost several hundred dollars. Not that I knew that much about fashion, but I could tell what was way out of my price range.

  “Ms. Sharp, I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the Beaulac Police Department,” I said as I extended my hand. “As I stated on the phone, I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding your husband’s death.”

  Her eyes flicked over me, taking in my clothing, my gun and badge, even my hairstyle—or lack thereof. I had a fleeting sensation of being cataloged, and I had to wonder if she could tell that I shopped mostly at stores that ended in Mart. Her eyes went back to mine, and she reached out and clasped my hand in a brief shake. Her manicure was perfect, her hand cool and smooth in mine. “Detective Gillian,” she said, polite smile curving her lips. “Please come in.” She stepped back and motioned me in. I obliged, then followed her as she turned and led the way to a sitting room.

  The sitting room was about the same size as the one in my house, except that in my house it was called a living room and definitely looked lived in. This was a room where one was expected to sit and perhaps sip tea and speak of lovely things in soft and cultured tones. Everything here looked expensive and elegant, with sleek furniture that exuded an aura of quality, fresh flowers on the coffee table, and a rolltop desk beneath a window that offered a stunning view of Lake Pontchartrain. It was beautiful, but I had a hard time imagining anyone spending much time in the room.

  She sat smoothly on a sleek couch that I figured cost more than every stick of furniture in my house. The only other place to sit in the room was a large wingback chair that I knew without a doubt would swallow me whole, but I didn’t really want to sit on the couch with her if I was going to be questioning her. I gave a mental sigh and sat carefully on the forward edge of the wingback, telling myself I didn’t really look ridiculous. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I began, setting my notebook on my lap.

  Elena Sharp crossed her legs and laced her fingers over her knee. “And I appreciate you making the drive to Mandeville, Detective Gillian,” she said, with a slight nod as if to say, There now, we have the pleasantries out of the way.

  “So, Davis was murdered,” she continued, mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “I take it I’m a suspect?”

  Oh, yeah, she wasn’t stupid by any stretch. “You understand that I can’t rule you out.”

  “Oh, I know.” She closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head and sighed. “One more way for Davis to screw me.”

  “You moved out and filed for divorce the day before his death,” I said, glancing at my notes. “How long were you two having marital difficulties?”

  She gave a breathless laugh. “Oh, no. We were not having marital difficulties at all. I was. I … didn’t want to be with him anymore.” An odd mixture of pain and fear flickered across her face, quickly smoothed away into a polite smile—though the echo of it lingered in her eyes.

  Interesting. Had she been afraid of her late husband? Enough to leave him? Or have him killed? “Yes, ma’am,” I said, glancing again at my notes. “You called the police twice in the last three years for domestic violence complaints.” I watched her face, keeping my expression friendly and neutral.

  “Yes,” she said. “So I did.”

  “You never pursued charges.”

  She stood and walked to the window, folding her arms across her chest and almost hugging herself as she gazed out at the lake. “I know that everyone thought I was just a stupid trophy wife. And you know what? I was—the trophy part, that is.” She ran her hands unconsciously over her dress, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. “But I’m not stupid. I grew up in a trailer, went to the public high school, and learned pretty early on that what money and influence couldn’t get, a blow job and a fake orgasm could.” She shrugged and gave a self-conscious laugh.

  I suddenly felt better about my own financial situation. “So you married Davis for his money.”

  She gave me an oh, plea
se look. “Well, duh. He was almost twenty years older than me. But I’m not a total mercenary. We actually had a lot of fun together, and I never really expected him to ask me to marry him.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “Shocked the shit out of me, to be honest.”

  “So, now that he’s dead, you’re pretty well set, right?”

  Elena shook her head. “I’m all right, but if you’re thinking that I inherited the massive Sharp fortune, then you’re sadly mistaken. I signed a rock-solid prenuptial agreement with that man.” She lowered her head and looked at me. “I had my own lawyer look it over damn carefully too, and a few changes were made, but we managed to come to some agreeable terms and went ahead and hitched on up.”

  “It sounds like a corporate merger,” I said before I could censor myself.

  She gave a small bark of laughter. “It was, in a way. Like I said, we had fun, but I also looked out for myself. And Davis was the same way. Who knows; maybe that’s what he liked about me. I’m attracted to powerful men. I guess that’s my downfall.” A look of regret crossed her face, then she shrugged her bare shoulders and it was gone. She moved to the desk and opened a drawer, removing a manila envelope. “Anyway, in a divorce, this is what I would get,” she said, as she pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope and passed it to me.

  I skimmed the page from her prenuptial agreement quickly. “That’s … a pretty decent sum of money,” I pointed out, trying not to look as boggled as I was.

  She gave me a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. Trust me, I remember where I came from. Unlike a lot of the rich bitches that I’ve hung around with, I can appreciate how rare this sort of lifestyle is. I’d have been able to live the rest of my life in pretty decent comfort.”

  “And what do you get now that he died before your divorce was final?”

  A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Well, he has two kids from his first wife, and they get most of his estate.” She pulled another sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to me. “I get a lump sum, plus a monthly stipend for the rest of my life.”