Blood of the Demon

to solve these murders.

I needed to relax and take time for myself. Even if it was for only a few minutes.

My phone rang again, followed by another voice-mail chime. I tightened my grip on the coffee mug, feeling my shoulders hunch up and my lip curl into a pout. Not fair. This was my time. I wasn’t on call.

Then I sighed. There were very few people who would call me for even boring mundane matters. And what if it was someone calling about Tessa from a different number?

I unfolded my legs and made my way back inside, oddly annoyed to see that the calls were from Ryan. Nothing to do with Tessa, after all. Not that I was annoyed to have Ryan calling me, but I realized that my worry about my aunt was increasing daily. I knew that I was pinning too many hopes on this ritual that Rhyzkahl gave me. I knew that I needed to face the reality that it might not work. Rhyzkahl had even said that the chances were slim. So I’m stubborn. Screw it.

I dialed my voice mail as I dumped the rest of my coffee out and rinsed my mug.

“Kara, call me.”

I rolled my eyes and pressed the delete button. Thanks for the details, Ryan.

The second message was even more informative. “Kara. Call me. It’s important.”

Great. I started to dial his number but was interrupted as the phone rang, with the caller ID showing—surprise, surprise—Ryan.

“I was calling you,” I said as I answered.

“I need you to come to North Highland Street in Gallardo,” he said without any preamble. “Murder—suicide. Supposedly.”

Gallardo was a small town just east of Beaulac, not large enough to have its own police force, which meant that the sheriff’s office handled any issues. “That’s outside my jurisdiction,” I informed him.

“I’m not asking you to do any work. But you need to come look at something. You know where North Highland is?”

“No, but that’s why I have GPS. Is this related to what I’ve been working on?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I want you to come out here,” he retorted, a touch of asperity in his voice.

“Smart-ass. Fine. I’m on my way.”

I was tempted to dawdle to get back at him for his unwillingness to part with information, but my curiosity won out. About forty-five minutes later I pulled onto a road running through a neighborhood that could only be described as “seedy.” Or perhaps “every other house a crack house,” if you wanted to get specific. There were a number of sheriff’s-office vehicles there, marked and unmarked. I parked my Taurus behind Ryan’s dark-blue Crown Victoria, then walked up to where the most sheriff’s deputies were clustered. I could see now why Ryan hadn’t bothered to give me a specific address. There was only one house on the street that bothered to have a house number displayed—and it was simply spray-painted on the black tarpaper that comprised the exterior. I gave nods and smiles to the deputies and detectives I recognized, then picked Ryan out of the crowd near the street and made my way over to him.

“So? What’s the deal?” I asked.

He jerked his head toward the house we stood in front of. It wasn’t the one with the spray-painted number on it, but that was about the only difference. The exterior was tarpaper, the roof was patched with a faded and tattered blue plastic tarp, and more than half the windows were broken. “Come and see.” He ducked under the crime-scene tape and I followed, after scrawling my name onto the scene log. He led me up to a porch of dubious stability, then we entered a gloomy interior. Ryan flicked on a halogen lamp that had been set up in the corner, giving me my first look at what he wanted me to see.

My first reaction was, Okay, two bodies shot in the head, both white, man and a woman, on the far side of middle age. Then recognition hit me. Shit—it’s the Galloways. Dismay filled me as I looked down at the couple.

The sense of wrongness slammed into me without warning. I pressed my hand to my stomach before realizing I’d done so, coffee in my belly abruptly feeling like roiling acid.

“They’re gone … but worse than the others,” I said as soon as I could work moisture back into my mouth.

Ryan nodded gravely. “Zack thought it felt … off. I’m not as sensitive as you, but even I can feel that there’s something bad going on here.”

Probably anyone with arcane sensitivity would be able to feel it. They wouldn’t know specifically what was wrong, but they’d have a lingering sense of unease about the two bodies. I made myself move closer, cautious of where I was stepping, not only to avoid contaminating evidence—though I was fairly confident that the scene had been recorded and swept already—but also because I didn’t trust the floor to support my weight.

I crouched beside Sam Galloway. He’d been shot in the side of the head, and I could see stippling and scorch marks near his temple. I glanced over at Sara. “What’s the explanation? That he shot her and then himself?”

Ryan nodded. “Gun’s already been recovered. In his hand.”

“I can’t say that’s not what happened,” I said slowly as I shifted into othersight to deepen my assessment, “but I don’t think that’s the truth.” I stood, shifting back to normal vision, unable to keep the shudder from crawling over my skin. “I … think that someone else killed them by pulling their essence away, and then made it look like a murder—suicide. They might have still been breathing when they were shot, but they weren’t alive anymore.” I put a hand to my stomach, sick. “Ryan, this means that some person, either with the ability to consume essence or controlling a creature with the ability, is using it as a weapon.”

“Fucking shit,” Ryan said, nearly growling the words. “You said this was worse than the others. What did you mean?”

I swallowed harshly. “The essence was … ripped out, before they died.” An icy shiver rippled down my back. “I don’t know much about what could be doing this, but I can’t help but think it had to be insanely powerful to be able to rip it out before death, before the body had loosened its hold.” I shuddered, then looked at him. “What were they doing here?”

He scowled, jamming his hand through his hair. “I told you that they used to be restaurant owners, right? Well, that was before a significant stash of meth was found in their freezer during a raid several years ago.”

I frowned. The Galloways hadn’t struck me as the meth-dealing type at all.

“The restaurant was seized,” Ryan continued, “and they didn’t contest it, most likely to keep their son—who was known to be the occasional meth user—from spending the next umpteen years in jail for production and distribution.” His scowl deepened. “Even though there was nothing to point to a lab or any way to make that much meth.”

I waited for a few seconds more, then threw up my hands. “Ryan, you’ve completely lost me. What does this have to do with why they were killed? I thought you were trying to convince them to testify in your corruption investigation.”

He exhaled. “I can’t talk about it here. Let’s go back to your aunt’s place and I’ll explain.”

Chapter 23

My stomach was doing queasy flip-flops as I pulled into my aunt’s driveway, a combination of shock and no food other than my morning coffee. And, since I took my coffee thick and sweet, I now faced a serious comedown off the caffeine and sugar high.

A headache indicated that it wanted to take up residence behind my eyes, and I squinted against the noonday sun as I walked up the stairs to the porch. I heard a low rumble from the west and I glanced up, seeing the dark mass of clouds on the horizon that promised afternoon thunderstorms. About time. The harsh weather could be a shock to people who weren’t from this area, but the near-daily thunderstorms were about the only thing that made the summers bearable. The temperature would drop about ten degrees, and even though the humidity would climb up into the sodden figures, it was still better than the relentless heat. And I could handle the humidity just fine. I’d dry up and flake away in a desert climate.

Another low rumble accompanied me as I unwound the aversion on the door. As if answering the thunder, my impending headache gave a warning throb as I slid my key into the lock. Painkillers, I thought. And food. I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and I glanced back to verify that it was Ryan. It was. And, even better, I saw that he had bags in his hand—the kind of bags that fast-food establishments packaged their wares in.

Finally, something was going right with my day.

I turned the key and stopped dead, hand still holding the key as my heart did a little jump. The door had already been unlocked. I released the breath I was holding and let go of the key, backing away from the door and pulling my gun from my holster. How much noise had I made coming up the stairs? I could hear movement within. As I slid to the side to get better cover, I could see a figure moving around, but it was impossible to see who—or what—it was through the sheer curtains. But the ward had still been up, I thought. I knew that much.

I turned to signal to Ryan but discovered that I didn’t need to. He was sharp and must have seen me back away from the door. The bags of food had been abandoned on the hood of his car, and he stood at the base of the steps, his own gun drawn.

“Someone’s in there,” I mouthed silently. He gave me a small nod in response, waiting for me to take the lead.

With the door unlocked, it was an easy entry. I pushed the door open with one hand, quickly moving to avoid being framed in the doorway. “Beaulac Police,” I shouted, covering the hallway and entry to the kitchen with my Glock. “Come out where I can see you!” In my peripheral vision I could see Ryan entering smoothly and shifting to a position where he could cover the areas I couldn’t.

“Oh, shit!” I heard a male voice from the kitchen. “Kara, it’s just me.”

I couldn’t place the voice, though it was familiar. “Come out where I can see you, and keep your hands in plain sight!”

I don’t think I could have possibly been more surprised if the pope had exited the kitchen. Instead, it was Carl, Dr. Lanza’s gangly morgue tech, stepping cautiously through the doorway, his eyes wide and his hands raised. “Kara, it’s just me.”

I struggled for words for a couple of seconds as I tried to process why the fuck the morgue tech would be here. Could he be the one who’s been screwing around with the wards? If he was a summoner, I’d eat my left shoe. “What are you doing here?” I finally managed to ask, not yet lowering my gun.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on the place ever since Tess has been in the hospital.”

A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You’ve been mowing the lawn?” And Carl was tall, thin, with light-hazel eyes. Melanie-the-dingbat’s description hadn’t been far from the truth after all.

He smiled faintly. “Yes, and doing the edging, and weeding her gardens. And I fixed a busted window, and her roses needed some pruning too, so I—”

“Why?” Ryan interrupted, voice sounding oddly harsh in the hallway. “Why do you give a shit about Tessa’s roses?”

Carl blinked. “Well, she’s my girlfriend,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes flicked from Ryan and then to me. “You didn’t know?”

“No!” The word came out somewhat strangled. I holstered my gun and roughly shoved my hand through my hair. “No, she never saw fit to inform me that she had a … social life.” Not that it was all that shocking … Okay, it was all that shocking. This was Tessa. Weird, strange, quirky Tessa, who summoned demons in her house. I frowned. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but my aunt is kinda … strange. And has some, er, secrets.” Gah. This was starting to sound like she was some sort of spy. An insane one.

Carl lowered his hands, a small smile curving his mouth. “I know. She summons”—his gaze flicked quickly to Ryan, and I could see Carl censor himself—“strange creatures,” he finished instead of what he was obviously going to say.