Blood of the Demon

Chapter 27

My anger at myself grew as the distance from Mandeville increased. I’d been a jerk. An undisciplined, tactless jerk. There were a thousand ways I could have handled that whole situation differently, and any one of them would have been better and far more likely to result in Elena’s death being investigated properly. It was possible—even probable—that Fourcade was a good detective. But faced with the antagonistic ravings of a detective from a neighboring jurisdiction, it was no shock that he’d become defensive. Then my reaction had been to embarrass him in front of his coworkers. I’d put him in a no-win situation and given him no way to save face. If he went and got those surveillance tapes now or checked the prescriptions—all the things that he would have most likely done on his own without prompting—he would look like an idiot who had to be told what to do.

I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel, but since I was driving I decided that would probably be a bad idea. Instead, I settled for taking several deep breaths and focusing on the monotony of the drive to ease my stress. The drive from Mandeville to Beaulac was almost completely on back highways, and after about twenty minutes of pine trees and cow pastures I began to zone out, regaining a bit of the feeling of peace that I hadn’t even realized I’d needed until it was gone.

Until a few months ago, my life had been fairly uncomplicated—before Rhyzkahl and Ryan, and before losing my aunt. I drummed my fingers absently on the worn steering wheel. There was a part of me that was glad my life was not uncomplicated anymore. The loss of my aunt gnawed at me, even though I had hope that it wasn’t permanent, but I had to face the fact that I didn’t want a staid and sensible life. I would never have become a cop if I did. I liked the action and the excitement, even though most of the time on the job was spent in long stretches of inaction. My field-training officer had told me that police work was ninety-five percent boredom and five percent sheer terror, but that five percent made it all worth it.

The sign for St. Long Parish flicked past as I approached the bridge over the Kreeger River. I’d wasted much of the day with the trip to Mandeville, but at least I could mentally cross Elena off as a suspect, even if I couldn’t quite do so officially.

The loud bang on the right side of the car derailed my thoughts and sent my pulse racing. My hands tightened on the steering wheel convulsively as the car fought to swerve in the direction of the blown tire. Adrenaline dumped into my system as I felt the tires slide on the metal decking of the bridge. I steered into the skid, even though the retaining wall of the bridge loomed threateningly, and I managed to get the damn car straightened out and under control just shy of scraping the low concrete barrier.

I allowed myself a ragged breath of relief, then caught a movement in the rearview mirror, barely registering the large pickup truck coming up on me far too fast—

The truck slammed into the left rear corner of my car, spinning it, sending me jerking heavily against my seat belt, and knocking the breath out of me. I saw the retaining wall approach again, far closer and faster. I fought the steering wheel, and for a timeless instant I thought I’d regained control. Then the truck slammed into me again, and my stupid Taurus slid up the side with an agonizing shriek of metal on concrete, hovering on the lip for a heartbeat before tipping over the barrier.

The impact when the car hit the water jammed me against the seat belt again. I dimly felt something in my chest or shoulder give way, but the massive wave of adrenaline slamming through me didn’t give me a chance to feel pain. Water sloshed threateningly against the windows as the car began to sink, and within three heartbeats the car had slipped under the surface.

I was shrieking inside, but within the car it was insanely quiet, save for the low creak of metal and plastic and the quickly rising sound of water rushing through the vents. Stay calm! Stay calm! I silently screamed at myself, teeth gritted together, breath hissing as I fought to undo the seat belt. My heart pounded as the water rose past my knees. Stay calm, damn it! That was the key to survival. Stay calm, wait for the water to fill the car and equalize the pressure, then get a door open.

I couldn’t tell if the car was still descending or if I’d already hit bottom. I didn’t know how deep the river was or what section of the river I’d landed in. For all I knew there was only a foot of water above the car. Or thirty. The seat belt finally came free and I gave a sobbing gasp of relief, then had to clutch wildly at the seats as the car began a lurching roll, coming to a disorienting stop belly up and nose down.

I stabbed at the down button for the window, but either the electronics had already gone or there was too much pressure from the water. The water continued to rush in, swirling angrily higher. I fought the urge to claw at the door, then took a deep breath as the water rose over my head. Now I could open the door. I grabbed the handle and shoved against the door with my shoulder, shuddering in relief as it pushed open.

But only a few inches. My relief shifted to horror as I tried again to shove the door open. Something’s blocking it. The car’s wedged up against something. I groped through the small gap, fingers brushing a rough wood surface. It’s a tree. Shitshitshit, the car’s wedged up against a fucking submerged tree! Hurricane Katrina had dumped thousands of trees into the waterways, and most still remained. I swallowed the fear that screamed at me to keep clawing at the door and clambered past the seat to get into the back. A pocket of air lingered there still, air that I gulped desperately, but it was shrinking quickly. My piece-of-shit car wasn’t airtight by any stretch. I was shocked it wasn’t already completely filled with water, considering how much it leaked when it rained.

I sucked in another breath and pushed myself down to try the passenger-side door, but even through the murky water I could see the dark shapes of the tree branches that kept both doors from opening more than a few inches.

I kicked back up to my pocket of air. My rising panic screamed at me to shoot the back windshield out, but a last remaining sliver of calm asserted itself. The car was upside down, my head was barely above water, and if I shot my gun—a Glock, which probably would shoot once—I’d most likely kill myself from the shock wave in the water, especially since I was carrying hollow points. But I still had other options. I yanked my gun out of my holster and took a deep breath, ducking under and bracing myself with my feet against the seats. I grabbed the gun around the butt and the barrel with both hands, then drove the end of the barrel into the rear windshield as hard as I could.

I felt the windshield give way on the third try, relief flooding me as the tempered shards of glass billowed away. I pushed up to the sliver of remaining air pocket, then took a last heaving breath and ducked under the water.

I tried to keep my eyes open, but it was pointless. I couldn’t even see my hands through all of the silt in the water. I felt my way to the window and tried to worm my way out, but all I could feel was mud. My lungs began to burn from holding my breath, and I scrabbled frantically at the mud, trying to dig a way through. Horror flared through me again. This was the riverbed. There was no getting out that way.

My lungs screamed for breath, and I pushed up again to find the air pocket. Only about an inch of air remained, and I pressed my face against the carpet and sucked in one more breath. The front windshield. Stay calm. You can get out that way. I reached for my gun again, fingers fumbling on the empty holster as dread filled me. Fucking shit! I’d dropped it? Or maybe it hadn’t been fully in the holster?

The pocket of air was gone now. Red haze began to creep in on the edges of my vision. I’m going to die, I realized with a sick jolt. I’d faced certain death once before, but this time I didn’t feel any calm acceptance. This time I felt terror and anger and everything else. I wanted to scream in rage, but I wasn’t ready to give up that lungful of air just yet. The red burned across my vision, and then, without realizing it, I shifted into othersight.

I hung motionless in the water, shocked to my bones at the stunning wash of potency that swirled around me and the car. For a blinding instant I thought that the entire incident with the car going into the river had been an arcane attack, then I realized what I was seeing.

It was the river. The power of the raw element—a potency that I had never used before, never even been able to see before. I was accustomed to using the potency that formed the fabric of the planes, a power that felt sweet and hot and elegant. But this … this potency was raw and profound, and I could see how someone could be swept away in it.

I steeled myself and pulled at that potency.

It resisted me at first. It knew that I had no experience in drawing that sort of power—didn’t deserve to hold it, to shape it. But I didn’t want to shape it. I wasn’t looking for anything elegant or pretty, not now when I had only seconds left. I pulled harder, and then it felt as if a dam burst. It came crashing in on me and I opened myself to it, feeling it rage into my control, beyond my control. I gathered it clumsily, as much as I could bear. The river shrieked through me, churning and foaming as I pulled.

And then I pushed. As hard as I could. Pushed the power away from me in a wave. I felt and heard metal and wood and plastic twisting and tearing. I could feel myself screaming, using that last breath, forcing it all out as the power surged around me, swirling into a vortex.

And then I could push no more. I had no more air, no more power. I floated in the water, completely spent and out of air, the ruins of the car swirling around me.

And then the river pushed. I felt it crush into me, forcing me up and up. I suddenly burst above the surface, as if the river had birthed me. I took a dragging gasp of air, catching a small wave and inhaling water as well. I coughed, struggling to tread water with limbs that had no strength. I could see the bridge and the bank, but I couldn’t get my body to respond. Too far. I don’t have anything left to make it to the bank. The current grabbed at me, pulling me toward the center. My arms felt like lead weights, dragging me back under. Shit, so close.

The water closed over my head again, but before I could sink any farther, I felt a hard yank at my hair. My head broke the surface and I let out a choked gasp of pain.

“I gotcha!” I heard a voice shout. “God damn it, I gotcha!” The grip on my hair quickly shifted to my arm and collar, and I was dragged over the hard metal edge of a boat, scraping my ribs and belly. I landed in a tumbled and ungainly heap against a tangle of fishing poles and empty beer cans, as I struggled for a full breath. “You all right?” the voice asked. “Was there anyone else in the car?”

I held up my hand, still coughing, trying to nod and shake my head all at the same time. I finally took an uneven breath. “No … no one else,” I managed to choke out. “Just me.” My eyes felt clogged with silt, and when I could finally breathe without agony, I focused on wiping them enough to look up at my savior.

Good ole boy was the first thing that popped to mind. He looked like he was in his sixties, dressed in stained jeans and a frayed white T-shirt. He had the deep leathery tan of someone who spent his days out in the sun and a wiry build with just a bit of flab around the midsection. He crouched next to me in the boat. “Y’sure no one else was in the car with you?” he asked again.

“Quite sure,” I rasped. “I was by myself.”

He relaxed visibly. “That’s good. I saw the whole damn thing, saw the car go off the bridge. I was at the bend up there,” he said, waving a hand in the general direction of upriver. “Got over here as fast as I could, but that car went under fast.” He shook his head. “Good thing the river decided to spit you out,” he said, giving me a grin.

I smiled weakly. That’s about what it felt like.

He looked up toward the bridge, shading his eyes with a hand. “I heard a bang, then saw that truck just plow right into you. Next thing I knew, you was toppling right on over.” He scowled, then pulled a cell phone out of a plastic bag in his tackle box. He glanced down at me. “You a cop?”

I nodded, feeling the effort of even that much movement. “Detective. Beaulac PD.”

“Hunh. Make all sorts of enemies as a cop. I was a deputy with St. Tammany for more than thirty years. Retired now. Get to fish all I want.” His eyes swept over the river, and I could see what I knew was plain old naked love. He dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher a brief rundown of the incident. He glanced down at me. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Kara Gillian.”

He relayed my name and told the dispatcher that he’d meet them at the landing by the bridge. A few minutes later, I felt the boat crunch up against sand, and he leaped deftly out and pulled it farther up. I stood as soon as I was marginally stable, though my legs were still insanely wobbly. But he grabbed my hand in his thick, calloused one and practically lifted me to the bank. I gave him a smile of thanks and then staggered two steps to a spot on the bank that was reasonably rock-free and sank to sit. Holy crap, I’m not dead. I looked back at the bridge, wanting to laugh and shiver at the same time. Did someone want me dead, or was that an accident? I hugged my arms around myself, then shifted into othersight and looked at where my car had gone in the water. The truck had hit me twice. Tough to believe that was an accident.

I could see none of the incredible potency of the river that had surrounded me before. Was it because I didn’t need it anymore? No way to know, but I knew the river was just a river now. I wonder if they’ll be able to get my car out. And what they’ll think of the damage to it. I’d barely been able to make a blue glow in my hand back at my aunt’s house, but just a few minutes ago I’d harnessed and controlled enough potency to rip a car into pieces.

And even that might not have been enough if the old fisherman hadn’t been nearby.

I turned back to him. “Thank you,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.”

He smiled, a nice, friendly, open smile. “Raimer. Hilery Raimer.”

“I’ll remember that name.”

He nodded and looked back at the river. “Y’wanna hear somethin’ strange? You’re gonna think I’m crazy.…”

“I’m the last person to call anyone crazy,” I said with a weak grin.

He gave a small snort of laughter. “Funniest thing … ’bout five minutes before your car went into the river, I was anchored around the curve. Never woulda seen your car go in, and even if I’d heard it, I never woulda got here in time.” He shook his head. “But I coulda sworn I heard a lady yelling at me.” He glanced at me, uncertainty flickering across his face.

“Go on,” I urged.

He shrugged, trying to play it off. “I dunno. I been out in the sun a long time. But I coulda sworn I heard some lady yell, ‘Hey, old man, get your bony ass to the bridge. My knees hurt!’” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not the kinda thing a guardian angel usually says, huh?”

I echoed his chuckle even as a chill walked down my spine. My knees?

Or my niece?