Mark of the Demon

To my surprise, Tessa went pale and sank to sit on the floor. “Powers of all, yes. I have. I was a stupid teenager. And the only reason I’m still here is because he … was otherwise occupied.”

Something in my aunt’s tone told me more than any words could. I knew enough about demons that if my aunt—my powerful, experienced-summoner aunt—was this shaken by a memory that had to be over thirty years old, it had to have been bad.

I leaned forward and placed a hand solicitously on her knee. “I’m sorry, Aunt Tessa. Are you all right? Do you need me to get you anything?”

“Oh, for the love of all the spheres. I’m not about to fall over.” She rolled her eyes, color returning to her face, then stood, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. She looked up at the graphic novel on the shelf. “I don’t know how you survived, but I can only be intensely thankful that he chose to spare you.”

My throat felt tight. I knew what a Demonic Lord was, but it had simply never occurred to me that I might have called one, even inadvertently. The other-planar creatures known to me as demons had a strict hierarchy, with each level of demon jockeying for position and power within their respective levels. At the highest, above the twelve levels, were the lords—potent creatures who could wield devastating power and who utilized the powers and skills of the demons who served them. I hadn’t thought that they could even be summoned, which was why I had so little knowledge of them.

“You’ve always told me that the demons are neither good nor evil,” I stated, watching my aunt.

Tessa shook her head. “Don’t try to fling my own words into my face. I didn’t say he was evil. I said he was devious,” she said, shoving books back onto the shelves in utter defiance of details such as available space and the laws of physics. “Remember, good and evil are human terms that merely refer to the application of human morals. Demons are absolutely and utterly self-serving, and at the same time they are completely honor-driven. Which is a good thing, because without that driving sense of honor, nothing would ever get done in the demon realm. Everything is tied to honor and status.” She gave me a piercing look. “And a summoning is enormously offensive to a lord. Any demonic creature who did not take revenge against such an offense would be seen as weak and would lose huge amounts of status. Offend a demon—or a lord—at your own peril.”

I stayed silent. Tessa would never believe that Rhyzkahl had just let me go. Is that what happened? Did he just let me go? I guess he did, since I’m here and alive, but how could it be so simple?

Tessa sighed. “Go. You can tell me later exactly what happened, since you’re obviously not ready to tell me now.” She adjusted the chains at her waist, shaking her head. “You’re alive. That’s what matters the most.” She leaned in as I stood up and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then took me by the elbow and steered me toward the door. “I’ll talk to you more later.” And with that she pushed me out of the library and shut the door.

I looked back at the white door, relief warring with confusion. At least now I knew what Rhyzkahl was. But I had a feeling I was happier not knowing.

CHAPTER 5

Work. Now I can bury my stress under work, I told myself as I drove to the parish morgue. My visit with Tessa had done little to soothe my worries. Fortunately I had an autopsy to attend, which I hoped would distract me from obsessing over the events of the previous night. Maybe once I had my mind wrapped around the case instead of around my visitor, I’d feel sane again.

If an autopsy couldn’t stop me from thinking about sex with a demon, nothing could.

I stepped into the outer office of the morgue, automatically wrinkling my nose as the distinctive odor of the place struck me—intense even a room away from the cutting room. Though this was my first homicide, I’d attended a number of autopsies. Captain Turnham liked his detectives to be familiar with all of the various procedures for all types of investigations, no matter what the detective’s permanent assignment was. Much bitching and moaning usually resulted, though never in the captain’s hearing. Personally, I thought autopsies were utterly fascinating and had never complained about being sent to one, even when my cases were stacked up.

Dr. Jonathan Lanza, the forensic pathologist for the St. Long Parish Coroner’s Office, glanced up from his desk as I entered. “Morning, Kara. You can leave the door open.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The smell was obviously a bit much for him as well. It didn’t have the stench of decomposition, as one normally would expect in a morgue, but that was due to Dr. Lanza’s morgue tech, Carl, a self-proclaimed OCD cleaning fanatic. So instead of the vague odor of rotted flesh and formalin, it had the often- overpowering aroma of Pine-Sol and bleach and any other industrial-strength cleaner Carl could dig up. Doc often said that he was prepared for the day when he came into the morgue to find that Carl had died from some toxic combination of cleaning supplies.

“Morning, Doc,” I said as I propped the outer door open with a rock that seemed to be just for that purpose. “Is this the only one you have today?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I have a probable overdose in the cooler, but I’ll do him this afternoon.” He made a sour face. “I was actually on vacation this week. First real vacation I’ve taken since I started working here.” Then he gave a shrug. “But I’m glad they called me to ask if I was willing to come back in town for this. Otherwise it would have been sent to New Orleans, and that office is pretty overloaded.”

I understood completely. Even years after Katrina, the city and its surroundings were still getting everything put back in place. And some things would never be the same again.

“I took a look at your girl when I came in,” he continued. “It sure does look like another Symbol Man victim, doesn’t it?”

Unease rippled through me. “Sure does, Doc. Not too many people know the details of the symbol. I just can’t see it being a copycat.”

I watched as he began writing the case numbers on stickers and affixing them to empty vials and plastic containers. “So when are you going to join the twenty-first century and get a printer to do that for you?” I asked, laughing.

He made a rude noise. “I’ll be glad to just get into the twentieth.” The morgue for the parish reflected the shockingly low budget that the office worked with. The space to perform the autopsies was loaned from an area hospital, which meant that maintenance issues were seldom addressed.

A couple of decades ago the walls probably had been white, but now they were a sickly beige mottled with stains and spots of dubious origin. When I’d first started attending autopsies, one of the morgue techs had warned me to wear gloves whenever I came into the autopsy room, since blood got everywhere and even leaning against a wall could be an exercise in contamination. After the first time I saw an autopsy and watched the bone dust scatter through the room during the skull-cutting portion, I’d taken the advice to heart and worn shoe covers and gloves every time I came in.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Doc said, standing and donning a blue plastic smock and disposable apron. Dr. Lanza was a slender man, about my height, with dark hair and eyes and a friendly smile beneath a distinctly Grecian nose. He was also incredibly experienced, having spent several years working for the coroner’s office in Las Vegas, as well as a few years in Houston. I wasn’t sure how the little podunk parish of St. Long had managed to snag someone with his credentials, but, like most everyone else, I wasn’t about to complain.

The room where the autopsies were performed looked like something out of a B movie from the forties. A metal table was flush against a long metal sink, with the body of the victim already laid out on the table, cleaned and ready for Doc to begin. The cutting board and the array of nightmare-inducing implements were set out neatly on the counter next to the sink—scalpel, scissors, a long knife, and other devices that I knew had friendly names like “skull-crackers.”

I stepped in and took a closer look at my victim—easier now, after she’d been cleaned up. Easier to see the damage that had been done to her, the torture she’d had to endure. With the blood and dirt washed off, I could see her features, see that she’d most likely never been accused of being beautiful, or probably even pretty. She had a hooked nose and weak chin and eyebrows that had never known the sting of waxing. Her eyes were a flat brown, but death could dull even the brightest of eyes. Her body was skinny in the legs and flabby in the midsection. I