Mark of the Demon

She’d pegged it. “Not much,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a semblance of a task force assigned to the case, but it was a lackluster effort.” I shrugged. “Without a lot of public outcry about the murders, local and federal agencies were less inclined to spend a lot of time or money on them. You know how it is.”

Her brow creased in annoyance. “Oh, yeah, do I.” She took the tape from me and shoved it into one of the side pockets of her fatigue pants. “So how do you know so much about the cases?”

“Got lucky, I guess. I’m brand-spanking-new in Violent Crimes—haven’t even been assigned my first case yet—so I figured I’d see what I could learn from reading old case files. Since the Symbol Man cases are still unsolved, I decided to start with them.” I didn’t mention my own long-standing desire to get my hands on those files. Until I was transferred to Violent Crimes, I’d had no way to justify the request, and, with the convergence approaching, I’d already made up my mind that I was going to find a way to get to those files by any means necessary. Fortunately, my transfer had come through in time and I’d been spared the need to break into the file room. “And since I had some spare time—”

“You what?” Jill chortled. “Y’all get spare time? Oh, man, I so need to transfer!”

“We can trade,” I replied. “How hard can your job be? Take some pictures, measure some stuff, maybe throw some fingerprint dust around.” Her eyes widened in mock outrage, and I laughed. “Anyway, Captain Turnham handed me a large box full of files, pictures, and notes and said, ‘Knock yourself out. Don’t let any of your other cases suffer.’”

“So you do have spare time!” she crowed.

“Nah. I just have no personal life.” I gave a helpless shrug. “Some people date. I bone up on local serial killers.”

“Dear God almighty,” she groaned. “You so need to get laid.” Her gaze shifted to a point behind me. “Well, here comes Crawford,” she said, before I could form a retort to her evaluation of my life.

Not that I had any idea of how to respond—especially since she was frustratingly correct. But there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had too many secrets to get intimate with just anyone, and I sure as hell couldn’t risk anyone finding out about the summoning chamber in my basement. I’d simply accepted that a dearth of companionship was one of the prices I paid to be a summoner of demons.

In my entire life I’d had only two boyfriends, and neither relationship had lasted longer than a few months— each man ending it with the complaint that I was too private and wouldn’t “open up.” I’d fabricated lies and excuses for why I was always busy on the full moon or why he couldn’t stay the night at my place, but the constant deception had been tiring. It was the same reason why I’d never had any sleepovers when I was a kid and why I’d had so few friends—none of them close—in high school. There are worse things to endure, I told myself, not for the first time. Being a summoner is worth it.

I shoved aside the doubt that always accompanied that thought and glanced back at the man coming toward us. Jill kept her expression neutral, but I knew that she didn’t care much for Detective Cory Crawford. He was another transplant from the south shore, though he was from Jefferson Parish instead of the city. Jefferson Parish was just west of New Orleans and had almost as much crime as the city. He’d been with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office for almost fifteen years and working Homicide for over ten of those years, which meant that he had the most experience of anyone at Beaulac PD except for the captain.

And he made sure everyone knew it.

“Prepare to be astounded by his brilliance,” Jill said in a low voice before Crawford reached us, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Cory Crawford was a stoutly built man, not quite gone to fat though obviously battling a growing midsection. He had gray hair that he stubbornly dyed a dull brown, a neatly trimmed mustache that was dyed to match, and brown eyes that were so close to the color of his hair that many suspected he had specifically matched the two. In stark contrast to the all-consuming brown of his coloring, Crawford preferred to wear highly colorful ties, especially favoring the mildly psychedelic Jerry Garcia brand. A faint scent of wintergreen and tobacco clung to him, and I was exceedingly grateful that we were on a crime scene so I wouldn’t have to be subjected to the sight of him spitting tobacco juice onto the ground or into an empty bottle.

Detective Crawford gave a bare nod to Jill and a slight glower to me. “I hear you’re the resident expert on the Symbol Man cases.”

I dragged my eyes up from the wild red and blue pattern of his tie. “Expert? I’ve read the file on the old cases. That’s about it.”

Crawford’s expression soured still further. “And that apparently makes you more of an expert than anyone else here. Or so our captain has stated.”

It obviously pained him to admit that he wasn’t the sole fount of all knowledge. But the detective who’d been the lead on the cases before was retired and long gone, living in North Carolina. And the two other detectives who’d worked with him had both gone to work for other agencies. I knew I was pretty much the only one in the department who was up to speed on the cases, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected the captain to champion me to such a degree. “Er … I guess I am.” I ran my fingers through my hair, somewhat discomfited. No pressure. Yeesh. “So who recognized the symbol?”

“No one has recognized it,” Crawford corrected me gruffly. “This is not yet deemed a Symbol Man case. But Captain Turnham told me to let you take a look at it.”

Holy crap, but that had to have hacked him off. “All right. Let me take a look at it, then,” I said, feigning casualness. I wasn’t about to let him know just how badly I wanted to do this.

Crawford’s lips tightened, then he shot a look to Jill. “Are you finished processing enough for her to go look at the body?”

Jill nodded, maintaining an outward appearance of serene calm. “Yes, of course.”

Crawford spun and marched off toward the body. Jill and I exchanged a glance that we both knew meant What a dick, and then we followed him, trying not to laugh.

All thoughts of laughter died away as I got my first close look at the damage that had been done to the young woman. I sucked my breath in as my stomach clenched. “Holy shit.”

A muscle in Crawford’s jaw twitched. “I’ve never seen anything like this, Kara. It turns my stomach, and you know that I can handle a lot.”

There was nothing covering the body. What I had thought to be netting was actually the woman’s flesh. Precise parallel cuts had been made along the woman’s arms, legs, torso—a slice every half inch from the neck down, so perfectly placed that I could have used the cuts as a ruler. The only deviation in the meticulous spacing of the slices was the symbol that was centered between her breasts, carved into the flesh.

I breathed shallowly as I took in the hundreds and hundreds of thin cuts. None of them was deeper than a quarter inch, but I knew that I was looking at days of torture. It was almost a relief to drag my gaze up to examine the ligature marks at her throat—deep grooves in the flesh of her neck, with her face mottled and red above it. At least the ligature had meant an end to her agony, even if it had also meant an end to her life.

She was probably praying for an end by then.

I struggled to remain impassive and clinical as I looked over the precisely mutilated body, but it took every ounce of my self-control. I swallowed, throat achingly dry, and crouched to get a better look. This was not a brutal hacking. This was almost elegant and artistic, even as it was thoroughly horrific. All these cuts… This was all done while she was alive. And this matched the other victims. Even decomposed, there had been evidence of significant torture on those bodies.

I took a shuddering breath and steadied myself to look more deeply. More important than the strangulation and the mutilation were the features I could see that others couldn’t. I let my vision shift into othersight, breath catching in a mixture of relief and revulsion as the flickers of arcane light appeared. They were faded, but I could definitely see traces of arcane energies scattered on the body.

Just like the body I’d seen three years ago.

And now I could feel the arcane resonance—a hum of power, like a bass speaker a room away. Keeping my hand a couple of inches from actually touching the body, I spread my fingers over the symbol carved into her chest, opening myself further to that resonance. I knew that it probably looked weird as shit to anyone watching me, but I wanted to soak up as much sensation from this arcane resonance as possible.