Blood of the Demon

Chapter 26

It was a good thing that I’d slept so well before the summoning, because I sure as shit wasn’t able to sleep after Rhyzkahl departed.

I stared at the ceiling in my bedroom, alternating between angst and anger at myself. Woo, boy, I sure showed Ryan, didn’t I? I showed him that I could call the demonic lord. I showed him that I could sleep with whomever—or whatever—I wanted. Too bad I was left feeling like shit now.

Rhyzkahl was an excellent lover, there was no denying that. He knew all the right moves, could read my desires, gave me what I wanted when I wanted it—whether I knew it or not. He did all of the right “afterglow” things too, like holding me, stroking my hair, and murmuring sweet nothings.

But he didn’t mean any of them. He was a demon, and anything he did for me was only part of some bigger plan.

Then, to really cap the night off, I’d managed to piss him off by not yet agreeing to be his summoner.

And why the fuck did I feel like I’d cheated on Ryan? That was the most insane part of it all. Ryan and I were most certainly not in anything remotely resembling a relationship. We’d never slept together, had never even come close to kissing. Was I feeling guilty only because Ryan had come out so vehemently against me having a relationship with Rhyzkahl? Though, again, that wasn’t exactly a relationship either.

I sighed. Okay, so I really couldn’t summon Rhyzkahl again unless I was willing to give him the commitment he wanted, but I had the storage diagram now. I could call any demon I wanted, whenever I wanted. I didn’t need the help of the demonic lord.

So why did the thought of never calling him again leave me with an ache in my gut?

I was definitely the most screwed-up human in all existence.

My thoughts continued to churn and whirl in similar lines. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but when my cell phone rang, I jerked out of something that was awfully similar to sleep.

I blinked away the scuzz in my eyes and managed to make out that it was the Beaulac dispatch number. I fumbled for the answer button. “Gillian here,” I croaked. I glanced over at the clock. Five a.m. Gah. If I had slept, it wasn’t for more than an hour or so.

“Detective Gillian, this is Corporal Powers in the radio room. Mandeville PD called. They found your business card at the condo of Elena Sharp.”

I sat up. “Why were they at her condo? What happened?”

“She’s dead. Apparent suicide. Want me to text you the contact info?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I said, trying to shake off the numb shock. Too convenient. Too much coincidence. It was all connected somehow. Suicide, my ass, I thought grimly.

ABOUT AN HOUR later I pulled into the parking lot of Elena Sharp’s complex. The detective I’d spoken to, Robert Fourcade, had been fairly accommodating. And, after I’d given him a quick rundown of the case surrounding Elena’s husband’s death, he had agreed to allow me into the scene.

I pulled my badge out and showed it to the officer manning the door. “I’m Detective Gillian, from Beaulac PD. Detective Fourcade’s expecting me.”

The officer nodded as if he’d known I’d be showing up. “Right, you can go on in.”

I stepped in, feeling a strange déjà vu, with crime scene superimposed over it. A couple of the officers inside gave me “who the hell is this” looks, but a burly detective with dark-red hair stepped my way.

“You must be Detective Gillian,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Rob Fourcade.”

I shook his hand. “Call me Kara. Thanks for allowing me to come check out the scene.”

He shrugged. “I got no problem with it, but there’s nothing to indicate anything other than a suicide.”

Yeah, well, I could see and feel things Detective Fourcade couldn’t. I gave him an answering shrug and smiled. “But you understand why I wanted to check it out, especially since her husband was murdered.”

“Paperwork. Loose ends. I know the drill.” I could tell that he felt that I was wasting my time driving all the way down here. He jerked his head toward a back bedroom. “She’s in there.”

“I appreciate it.” I headed down the hallway. I hadn’t seen this part of the condo on my earlier visit. The walls were bare; the only decorative touch was an elegant vase with dried flowers sitting on a table against the wall.

The bedroom was more of the same. Solid, sturdy, and beautiful furniture that looked like it would last through an apocalypse. And lying across the expensive bedspread was Elena Sharp, quite clearly dead. I took in the sight of the pill bottles on the nightstand, then stepped closer to take a more thorough look at Elena.

I shuddered to a stop as I neared the bed and felt the body. I sucked in my breath, head spinning. The gaping lack of essence was so profound that I literally had to grab the bedpost to steady myself. This was far worse than Brian Roth and Davis Sharp. Worse even than the Galloways. I could feel the rending, the violence where this essence had been savagely ripped away while she was still alive. My fingers dug into the bedpost, and I fought to not puke.

“You all right?”

I hadn’t realized that Fourcade had followed me into the bedroom. I straightened, taking deep breaths to try to regain something resembling composure. “Yeah, I’m … just getting over some food poisoning.”

He frowned and nodded, but I could see the faint derision in his eyes. He thought that I was squicking at the sight of a corpse. If he only knew how many corpses I’d seen in the past six months …

“I don’t want to rush you, but the coroner’s office is here. As soon as you’re done, they’re going to bag her up.”

“Sure,” I said as I peered into the dead woman’s face. There was nothing to indicate that she’d died in the kind of arcane violence that I could feel. No look of horror etched into her features, no arcane sigils traced upon her body in blood, nothing else that would be there if this had been a scene in a movie.

“No forced entry,” Fourcade continued, sounding a bit bored. “No signs of struggle. I guess this helps tie up your other case.”

I looked at him blankly. “How?”

He waved a hand toward the pill bottles, and now I saw that there was a sheet of paper beneath them. “Note. Confession. It’s why I called you,” he said, as if explaining it to a three-year-old.

My jaw tightened, but I managed to keep my retort in check. I stepped over to the nightstand and read the note.

I cheated on my husband, then killed him. I couldn’t take the shame of a divorce. Now I can’t live without him, can’t live with the guilt.

It was a decent little suicide note, but it totally rang false. “This isn’t signed. It’s just a printout.”

“Half of all suicides don’t even leave notes,” he replied, mouth drawing down in annoyance. “You’re gonna get hung up because she didn’t dig out a pen and do it all nice and legal?”

“If you expect me to use this as a reason to close my other investigation, then, yes, I’m gonna get hung up,” I snapped back, too on edge to censor myself. “Where’s her computer?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, face darkening. “How should I fucking know? Probably in one of the other bedrooms.”

I walked past him to the hallway. I knew from my previous visit that there wasn’t a computer in the sitting room. The door to the other bedroom was ajar and I pushed in, quickly scanning. “No computer in here,” I called back over my shoulder. I heard a muffled noise that sounded like a growl, then the sound of opening and closing doors. I yanked gloves on and started opening drawers.

“Here,” I heard after about half a minute. I returned to the hallway to see Fourcade holding up a laptop case, smug smile on his face. “One computer. Satisfied?”

I shrugged. “Halfway. Now, where’s the printer?”

His red mustache was beginning to look pale in contrast to his florid face. “Maybe she wrote the fucking note and printed it out somewhere else.”

How stubborn was the guy going to be? I knew that I shouldn’t get into an argument with the detective about how to handle his own case, but I couldn’t believe that he had zero interest at all that the case could be more than a suicide. A rational part of me tried to argue that toxicology testing would show whether or not it had been a suicide, since I seriously doubted that she had actually ingested the pills, but I wasn’t interested in listening to the rational part at this moment. The past few days had been grueling and stressful, and I wasn’t about to let this jackass do a slapdash job of investigating this scene.

“Look,” I said, stepping toward him. “If she couldn’t take the time to find a pen to sign her name, why the fuck would she take her laptop to someplace else that had a printer to print out a suicide note? All I’m asking you to do is to treat this like a homicide investigation until you know for a fact that it’s not. I’m asking you to do your job.”

The last sentence was one that I really should have internalized.

“Get off my fucking scene, Detective,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Get surveillance video from the guard gate. See who came in,” I pressed. Fuck it. I’d already completely pissed him off. “Check the prescriptions. Fucking investigate it!”

“Don’t tell me how to do my fucking job. Get out!”

I took a step back to avoid the slight spray of spittle, abruptly realizing that everyone else in the condo had stopped working and was staring at us in the hallway. I scowled and squared my shoulders. “Fine.” My gaze swept the others. “Don’t any of you worry about this woman’s murderer going free because this man was too damn lazy to put in a little legwork.”

I left amid the openmouthed stares of Mandeville’s finest.