Mark of the Demon

the outside world. I didn’t maintain anything resembling a lawn around the house, and this time of year, wildflowers sprang up in chaotic arrangements anywhere there was enough sunlight. A mockingbird sang lustily from somewhere nearby, and I tucked my feet underneath me while I curled my hands around the mug, warming my hands against the morning chill and trying to settle my nerves.

“Right, settle your nerves by slugging down some double-strength coffee,” I muttered to myself. But coffee was one of my comfort foods, and next I’d go after the chocolate and the potato chips.

The memory of Rhyzkahl’s visit was vivid, unlike a dream, which would have faded to haziness by now. Had he merely touched my dreams? I had to admit, there was no physical evidence on my body or in the room, which would have been there had he been present in the flesh.

Justa dream. Justa strange and erotic and unsettling dream visit from a Demonic Lord with whom I had a one-night stand. Nothing at all to get worked up about.

I scowled and finished my coffee, then showered and dressed. And on the way to the office stopped and bought a half dozen chocolate doughnuts.

I spent the morning in my office on the Internet, running queries on absolutely everything I could think of, from demons, to symbology, to blood magic and anything else that popped into my head. By lunchtime, I’d come up with a ridiculous amount of useless information—most of it inaccurate—and had eaten all of the doughnuts.

I groaned and leaned back in my chair, feeling slightly ill from the massive quantity of sugar and fat slogging through my bloodstream and frustrated and uneasy about my lack of progress on the case.

Oh, yeah, and my dream visitor who sure as hell didn’t feel like a dream. That was just one more piece of fun to throw into the mix.

A dull headache began to pound behind my eyeballs. I sighed and rubbed at my temples, then on a whim leaned forward, pulled up a search engine, and typed in the name of the comic book that my aunt had shown me.

“Hot damn,” I breathed. It was apparently a fairly popular graphic novel, with a pretty comprehensive website devoted to it—ordering information, history and storyline, and even quite a few sample graphics.

Including pictures of Rhyzkahl.

Okay, it probably wasn’t actually him, but how the hell had this guy managed to draw something so damn close? I hit the print button on my computer as I continued to scrutinize the pictures. I hadn’t examined the comic very closely at my aunt’s house, so I took the opportunity now.

It was him. The more I looked at it, the more certain I became. The white-blond hair, the Adonis-like build, the enigmatic smile, and the crystal-blue ancient eyes—holy shit, the eyes! Somehow this artist had seen or met Rhyzkahl before.

I clicked through the site, looking for information about the artist, but it was surprisingly bare. That was odd. You’d think that an artist would want to promote himself. Or herself. There was only a name: Greg Cerise.

But even if there wasn’t much artist information on the site, there was a page all about how to order and where to order from. To my surprise, the address for mail order was a local P.O. box.

“So how did this artist encounter him?” I murmured to myself as I did another search on the artist. On a whim I pulled up LexisNexis.

I narrowed my eyes at the information on the screen. Now, wasn’t that some shit? Not only was there actually a person named Greg Cerise, but—surprise, surprise—he lived in Beaulac.

A thrill of excitement ran through me. I could go talk to him, find out what he knew about Rhyzkahl—get a viewpoint other than my aunt’s. And I could even justify going while on duty, since I knew that the murders were connected somehow to the arcane, right?

Okay, so that was a stretch. The guy drew pictures of my demon lover. That hardly qualified as a connection. I suppressed my insistent twinge of guilt and tried to ignore the voice that reminded me that the chief had recently chewed me out for acting like a nutjob. Yeah, well, the chief has no idea that the Symbol Man is working in the arcane.

I allowed myself a smug smile as I quickly printed out the address information. Being a nutjob might prove to be a job requirement.

CHAPTER 10

The house didn’t look like much, just a single-story brick thing with unadorned windows and lackluster landscaping. The lawn had been mowed in the past few days and there was no trash in the yard, but it had a kept- up-just-enough look that made me suspect Mr. Cerise rented the place. A dark-blue Toyota Corolla with two flat tires was parked in the driveway, and a quick peek inside revealed what looked like a gym bag in the back seat, a pile of papers that looked like they might contain drawings, and several crumpled bags from various fast-food establishments. I jotted down the license number in my notebook on the off chance I might need it later, then made my way up the cracked walkway.

“He’s not there during the day,” I heard from behind me before I could ring the bell.

I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of a driveway on the opposite side of the street. She was easily well into her eighties, dressed in bright yellow velour sweatpants and jacket, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight that I decided the woman probably had twice as many wrinkles as were immediately evident.

“He’s usually gone all day,” she said, glancing up and down the street before crossing, chin up and a fixed smile on her face. I could see the woman’s eyes flick busily over me, from my clothing to my badge and gun, all the way down to my shoes.

I could peg this one. The ultimate in nosy neighbor. As a detective, I usually loved this sort. As a person, this was why I had a house twenty minutes away from civilization.

I gave the woman a bright smile. “I appreciate the information. I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the PD. Do you know where he works?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”

I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”

“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.

That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”

Ms. Dailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, he sits at that place and doodles in a notebook, sometimes talking and joking with those drug addicts.” She made a disgusted noise. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up just like them!”

Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone to actually reach out to those people. I knew the center she was talking about. A couple of years ago, several of the local churches had cooperated to create a community outreach center that I had to grudgingly admit was proving to be pretty effective. Though I was about as far from a churchgoer as one could be, even I had occasionally steered people who were having trouble coping toward the place. It had also become the “in” thing to be involved with for local politicians, and just about anyone of any importance was on the board of directors in some capacity.

But now I was intrigued about Mr. Cerise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said, being deliberately obtuse. “He does drugs with them?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, it’s possible! It’s not just that outreach center either. He wanders in bad sections of town, hangs out in the park, gives money to bums …” She gave a not-so-delicate shudder. “Plus, he dresses like a hippie, and with that long hair of his …” She gave a sniff. “I’ve called his landlady several times about him, but all she says is that he pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems.” She made a face. “I don’t know why she won’t listen to me.”