Blood of the Demon

Chapter 15

I scowled at my reflection in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Brian Roth’s funeral was in an hour, and my dress blue uniform hung on me like an oversize sack. My choice of attire for the funeral yesterday had been easy—dress like a detective. But this was a funeral for a fellow officer, which meant that everyone—from the chief on down—would be dusting off the dress blues. Until this moment, though, I hadn’t realized quite how much weight I’d lost, thanks to the too-stressed-to-eat diet that I’d been on for the last few months. On the one hand, I was elated that the insistent little pudge at my belly was gone. Flat stomach! Hooray! However, the idea of buying a whole new wardrobe was nowhere near as pleasant. Not on a cop’s salary.

I sighed and cinched my belt a notch tighter in an effort to keep my pants from falling down. The extra fabric wrinkled uncomfortably at my waist, but it was better than giving the entire community a free show. I scowled down at my clown-sized pants, glad that I didn’t have to wear a fully rigged duty belt, with holster and handcuffs and baton. My pants would definitely end up around my ankles then.

I fiddled with the positioning of my name tag and tried to remember when I’d last put the damn uniform on. Two years ago, I decided, at the annual departmental awards ceremony when I’d dutifully accepted my five-year service pin. I wrinkled my nose and leaned closer to the mirror, repositioning said pin on my right breast pocket. Since making detective, I hadn’t had any other need to wear the uniform. I rarely worked off-duty details like so many of the other detectives did. And, fortunately, the department hadn’t lost a cop in the line of duty since I’d been there.

My fingers paused on the pin. Except for me. There was a part of me that still felt guilty for subjecting everyone to the agony of thinking I’d died, even though it wasn’t my fault and the only other option would have been for me to actually die permanently. But funerals were horrible, wrenching affairs, and the brotherhood of police officers was a tight one. The loss of a cop was the loss of a family member, and I knew I wasn’t the only one dreading going to this funeral.

And Brian’s is guaranteed to be a ridiculously overblown affair. Since he’d been the son of Judge Harris Roth, that meant that every attorney, politician, and kiss-ass would be there.

I winced and gave myself a mental smack for the uncharitable thoughts. Brian had been a cop, and as such he would get the honor due a cop, even though he hadn’t died in the line of duty, and even though his death had numerous questions still surrounding it. However, apparently word had leaked out that there were questions as to whether Brian had killed Carol. I suspected that Pellini had probably let something slip, but on this occasion I couldn’t find it in myself to be annoyed with him for sharing information about an ongoing investigation. Everyone’s morale had lifted immeasurably, just knowing that there was a chance Brian had been innocent.

But this service would be a far cry from Carol Roth’s funeral. Her parents had insisted on a very private, very personal service, which had been performed with an extreme minimum of fuss the day before. I wasn’t sure if her former father-in-law, Judge Roth, had attended—or been invited. I couldn’t blame Carol’s family for that. Since it had been assumed that Brian killed her, I could see why they didn’t want any of his family there. Plus, Judge Roth was likely having a hard enough time as it was.

Sighing, I stepped back and regarded myself in the mirror again. I looked like shit. Even I could recognize that. I had dark circles permanently embedded under my eyes, my face was sallow, and my uniform was about three sizes too big for me now. Yeah, well, maybe averaging only three hours sleep a night isn’t helping much either. And that’s only with the help of a few glasses of wine.

A hard knock on the door interrupted my self-loathing. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, then went to the door and peeked out through the peephole.

I pulled the door open and frowned at Ryan. “You look sharp,” I said. And he did too, which made me feel ten times as sloppy. He looked one hundred percent Fed, in a well-tailored dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, and gray tie. “Why?”

“I figured I’d come with you to the funeral.”

My knees nearly wobbled in relief, and I realized how nervous I’d been about facing the rest of the department. I knew I was being stupid, but since the last funeral had been mine, I couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of awkward. “Thanks,” I said fervently. I didn’t need to say any more. He got it.

“You need a new uniform,” he said, narrow-eyed gaze traveling over me.

I snorted and grabbed my keys. “I wear the damn thing barely once a year, and we don’t get our annual uniform allowance until next January. By then I’ll probably have gained all the weight back.” I headed out the door, locking it behind me.

“Good,” he said as he followed me down the stairs. “You’re all angles and elbows right now.”

I gave him a sour look. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel sexy.”

He grinned. “Well, how about: If anyone can make an oversize polyester uniform look hot, it’s you.”

I had to fight to keep from revealing how tickled I was at the thought that he might consider me hot. Not that he did. He’d already said I was all angles and elbows. Instead, I made a point of looking down at my attire and then rolling my eyes. “You are obviously incredibly desperate for female company.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I have a thing for smart chicks in uniform?”

This time I did laugh. “And apparently the heat is affecting your perception. Just get in the damn car.”

I’d been more than right about the expected turnout. The location of the funeral had been changed at the last minute to the municipal auditorium, since none of the churches in the area had anywhere near sufficient capacity to handle the number of people who wished to pay their respects—even with Brian a suspect in Carol’s death. I found a spot against the wall and did my best to blend in and stay unnoticed, though I wasn’t having too much success with Special Agent Ryan Kristoff standing beside me in full-fledged FBI mode.

The line for the viewing snaked throughout the auditorium, and I couldn’t help but think that the place would have been best served by having a setup with ropes and poles like the ones for the rides at Disney. I didn’t join the queue. I’d never had a desire to look at the carefully waxed and made-up faces of the dead, and I also felt no desire or need to offer my regrets to the grieving parents. I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me, and there was no need to make the line even longer, in my opinion.

I casually scanned the crowd. About every third person was a police officer—either from Beaulac PD or from neighboring agencies. Brian had been fairly well-known and had also worked with the sheriff’s office for a time, so I could understand why so many officers were here. But I had to force myself not to roll my eyes at the insane number of political hangers-on that streamed in. This place was a local lobbyist’s wet dream. I mentally tagged every parish and city councilman, darn near every courthouse employee, the entire DA’s office, the mayor, constables, judges, justices of the peace …

I finally gave up trying to track who was attending. Face it, everyone is here. But at least that gave me more of a crowd to hide in.

Unfortunately, though, not enough of one. I stiffened when I heard the loud whisper off to my side, clearly meant to be heard.

“Too bad the last funeral was complete bullshit.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give the speaker the satisfaction of looking over to see who he was. Besides, I didn’t have to look. Detective Boudreaux’s redneck twang was distinctive even in a stage whisper. Dickhead, I thought murderously, and shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the fact that they had tightened into fists.

My tension must have been palpable. Ryan turned his head and gave me a questioning look.

“It’s nothing,” I said softly. “It’s only a couple of people being idiots. It’ll blow over.” I still couldn’t fathom why anyone would think I had faked my death to get attention, but I knew there was no accounting for the stupidity of some people.

His eyes narrowed and then his gaze lifted toward Boudreaux—or so I assumed, because I still wouldn’t look over.

“Who’s the fat fuck standing next to the pimple-faced fuck?” he asked in a low calm voice, as if he were asking what time lunch would be.

I flicked the quickest of glances toward Boudreaux. “The fat fuck is Pellini. The pimple-faced fuck is Boudreaux.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. Ignore them.”

Ryan made no response, his gaze sweeping the rest of the room. “I’m sorry, Kara,” he said after a moment.

“About what?”

A flicker of annoyance and regret passed over his face. “I didn’t realize that anyone honestly thought you’d faked your death. I thought it was only a couple of idiots.”

I forced myself to shrug. “It is only a couple of idiots. Don’t sweat it. It’ll blow over. Eventually something else will happen that they can sink their teeth into and they’ll forget all about it.”

His mouth tightened. “Right. They’ll forget all about it.” I could feel the tension coming off him.

I sighed softly, exceedingly grateful when the service started. I was even more grateful when Jill came up to me, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. I smiled at her, suddenly aware of how lucky I was. It was too damn easy to fall into a cycle of oh-poor-me.

The service was long and tedious, with every possible political figure making his or her weeping way to the podium to extol Brian’s virtues—which was surreal and strange, considering the ongoing investigation. As I’d expected, the funeral was turning into the ultimate suck-up for everyone who wanted to get in or stay in Judge Harris Roth’s good graces. The air-conditioning in the auditorium wasn’t dealing with the enormous crowd very well, and by the time the service finally wrapped up, everyone was sweaty, edgy, and bored.

I hung back while people filed out. I watched Harris Roth walk by, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that I suspected was not from a department store. I’d seen him only in photographs before, but I had to admit that they didn’t do him justice. He was tall and imposing, handsome in a way that had nothing to do with the set of his features and everything to do with his air of confidence and authority. He was far from ugly, though, with a strong jaw, black hair heavily touched with gray at the temples, and dark eyes that looked straight ahead without seeming to see anyone. Though his eyes were dry, I had no doubt about the depth of his grief. It was etched into his face and seemed to surround him like a cloud. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child—especially in such a way.

I recognized the woman on his arm as Rachel Roth. She was the second Mrs. Roth—but I didn’t know a lot more than that. I was hideously uninformed when it came to the social scene. Where Harris was strong-featured and handsome, Rachel Roth was strong-featured and … well, handsome really was the best word. She was by no means unattractive, but she definitely had to work hard to make the most of what she had. To give her credit, she did so, and did it well. She carried herself with confidence and ease, her figure was toned and fit, her hair was exquisitely highlighted, her makeup was flawless, and her clothing was impeccably styled. Even her crying was perfect, as she dabbed very carefully at her eyes with an actual cloth handkerchief, looking poised and dignified doing so—which was personally annoying. When I cried I looked like the Elephant Man, and I was in the habit of taking the back door out of tearjerker movies so the rest of the people in the theater wouldn’t see my puffy eyes and swollen nose.

But even her delicate crying seemed to be too much for Harris to handle. I saw him glance at her, then look quickly away—pain rippling across his face as if her tears were a brutal reminder of what he’d lost. For an instant it looked as if he wanted to pull away from her, but she kept hold of his arm. Apparently she needed his support more than he wanted to distance himself from her grief.

“She and Brian were really close,” Jill murmured from beside me. I glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and she shook her head. “No, not the icky kind of close,” she said, nose wrinkling. “She was his stepmother, but from everything I heard she was more of a mother to him than his natural mother.”

“What happened to his real mother?”

“The first Mrs. Roth? Oh, she passed away a little over a decade ago. Some sort of cancer, I think.”

I gave the appropriate grimace.

“The judge married Rachel less than a year later,” Jill continued. “I think that most people thought it wouldn’t last, that it was just a reaction to his grief, but it’s been almost ten years now.” She shrugged. “Proved them all wrong. And she’s a pretty hotshot attorney on her own. Does a lot of pro bono work too, especially at nursing homes and neuro centers like the one your aunt’s in. Victims’ assistance, abuse and neglect, that sort of thing.” Her eyes followed Harris as the pair exited the front door. “Ya gotta admit, he’s not bad-looking at all, and there are puhlenty of women who would have loved to have a chance to be the next Mrs. Judge Harris Roth.”

I glanced at Ryan to see his reaction to Jill’s assessment, but he was scanning the crowd and not paying attention to our conversation. I looked back to Jill. “He’s good-looking, sure, but he’s only a local judge.”

“He still has a fair amount of influence. Any judge does. He just won his third term too, since no one qualified to run against him last month.”

Ryan flicked a glance our way. “Well, Judge Roth got lucky when Ron Burnside broke his leg the day before qualifying opened,” he said. Obviously he’d been paying more attention than I’d given him credit for.

I blinked stupidly at him while Jill let out a low whistle. “Oh, man,” she breathed. “I didn’t know he was planning to run against Roth.”

Ryan gave a stiff nod. “He hadn’t started campaigning, but there was some talk around the parish about it.”

“Why would a broken leg stop him?” I asked.

His face clouded. “Because he died the next day during surgery to put a pin in. He had a history of atrial fibrillation, and it was concluded that the accident triggered an attack.”

“Ah.” I felt a small pang of regret. I hadn’t known Ron Burnside well at all, but I’d been in court with him numerous times. He was a public defender—genial and good-natured, with a quick smile and a firm handshake—who did what he could for the crap clients that he had. Unlike a lot of cops, I didn’t view all defense attorneys as evil incarnate, and most certainly not public defenders. They had an essential place in the system. It wasn’t a perfect justice system, but it was what we had, and I knew that if I was ever arrested I’d want the chance to have someone defending me.

I fisted my hands in my pockets and frowned. “I remember him being a nice guy. But I don’t think he would have had a chance of beating Roth. I mean, I don’t know much about politics, but it seems as if it would be pointless to run against a sitting judge unless there’s some big scandal or something.”

“You’re right,” Ryan agreed. “But Roth would still have had to mount a campaign.”

“Which would have cost him major bucks,” Jill finished, nodding knowingly.

I couldn’t help but feel a little stupid as I looked back and forth between them. “How do you two know so much about politics? And how much money are we talking about?”

Jill grinned. “My dad used to be a councilman down in New Orleans. And I’d be willing to bet that a campaign against even a crap opponent in this little parish would cost, oh, maybe a hundred grand or so.” She gave Ryan a questioning look. “You agree?”

He folded his arms across his chest, gaze skimming the crowd again. “That sounds about right.”

I closed my dropped jaw. “A hundred grand? Are you kidding? For a piddling parish election?”

“A judge has a lot of power,” Ryan reminded me. “And costs add up in a campaign. If you add in television, it gets even more expensive.”

“Right,” Jill said. “Now, that’s not all out of his own pocket—a majority of that is from campaign contributions—but anyone who runs for public office has to be prepared to shell out a fair chunk of change. Of course, a sitting judge is going to have an easier time getting contributions.”

I caught movement from the corner of my eye, and I stiffened. I almost didn’t look at the pair approaching me, then changed my mind. No, I was not going to let those two moronic detectives intimidate me. I took a deep breath, then turned to look straight at Pellini and Boudreaux as they came up to me, steeling myself for another of their obnoxious comments about my funeral. At least I have Ryan and Jill beside me.

But instead of making a snide crack, Boudreaux stopped in front of me and stuck his hand out. I looked down at his hand for a heartbeat, then looked up at his face, perplexed. What the fuck was he up to now?

“Kara,” he said, voice quiet and earnest, “I wanted to let you know that I’m glad everything worked out for you with the Symbol Man case. You did the department real proud, and I’m glad you came through it safely.”

I continued to stare at him. Who are you, and what the fuck have you done with Boudreaux? I wrenched my gaze over to Pellini, but his expression was as open and earnest as Boudreaux’s. Boudreaux still stood there with his hand extended, and after another few heartbeats I was able to lift my own hand to his. He smiled and shook it, then stepped back. Pellini shook my hand next, and for an instant I thought he was going to pull me into a man-hug, but instead he merely gave me a smile that was amazingly close to being nice. Good thing, too, because I was pretty sure that if he’d tried to hug me, I might have kneed him in the crotch out of pure reflexive instinct.

They walked out, leaving me to stare after them in absolute shock. I turned to look at Jill and was relieved to see a similarly stunned expression on her face.

“What the fuck happened to those two?” she asked. “Did we slip into an alternate universe?”

I gave a baffled shrug. “That’s the most reasonable explanation I can think of.” I shook my head. “Too fucking weird. Hell, it’s probably a setup for some nasty joke. Oh, well, I’m ready to get out of here.”

Jill glanced at her watch, grimacing. “I need to dig out too. Shitload of work to catch up on.” She gave me a quick hug, then headed out the door.

“C’mon, Fed Boy,” I said to Ryan, then saw that he was staring off into the distance again. I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Yo, Ryan. Time to go.”

He pushed off the wall, then winced and put a hand up to his head.

I seized his arm as he swayed. “Are you all right?”

Straightening, he brushed his hand over his face and gave me a shaky smile. “I’m all right. I think I have a migraine coming on. Must be the heat in here.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes were like hollow pits in his face. “Do you want me to bring the car around?”

“I can make it to the car. I’m all right. I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes.” He shrugged and smiled, but I could see it was forced.

I walked with him to the car, trying not to look like I was hovering over him. To anyone else it probably looked like he was merely walking slowly, but I had the unnerving impression that he was struggling to stay upright. I’d never had a migraine, but I couldn’t imagine that the bright sun and south Louisiana heat were helping matters any.

Ryan climbed into the car and practically collapsed into the seat, pulling the door closed and then leaning back against the headrest. I started to slide into the driver’s seat, then paused, narrowing my eyes at a car on the other side of the parking lot. How many bright red Mercedes convertibles can there possibly be in Beaulac? And I doubt that Davis Sharp is driving his. I hadn’t seen Elena Sharp inside the auditorium, and I was fairly certain that I would have noticed had she been in attendance. So why would she be out in the parking lot now?

As I watched, the red Mercedes thrummed to life and then sped off in a roar of quality German engineering. I caught a quick glimpse of the driver—she was wearing sunglasses, but I was still fairly convinced that it was Elena Sharp.

I shrugged it off for now and got into the car, cranking the engine to get the AC going. “Put your seat belt on. Are you all right?” I asked again.

He complied with my command. “I’ll be fine. Just need to close my eyes for a bit,” he repeated.

“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 fine. 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.