Fury of the Demon

Chapter 27

After half an hour in the pet store with Eilahn I began to look back fondly on my last visit to the dentist.

More toys. Treats. A special blanket. A cat bed—selected only after Eilahn poked, prodded, sniffed, and rubbed her face against every variety available. Brushes and combs—and I had to seize her arm to keep her from trying them out. By the time she trundled her shopping cart down the food aisle I was ready to snap.

“Eilahn, here’s cat food,” I said with a slightly manic smile as I grabbed the first bag available. “It’s a big bag! We won’t have to shop again for ages. It’s even on sale!”

She looked over at me with a very serious expression. “I will get organic Kitty Cuisine Niblets for Fuzzykins,” she informed me primly. “She is eating for seven and superior quality nutrition is critical.”

“Seven?!” I released the bag and stared at her, aghast. “Wait, there’ll be six copies of her running around, glaring and hissing at me?”

“Yes! Is it not wonderful?” she exclaimed, beaming. “I am still deciding on the names.”

My horror increased. “Are you planning on keeping them all?” I shook my head frantically. “No no no. You have to find homes for them.”

Her lovely brow furrowed. “I would not send them away if they do not want to go.” She frowned. “That would be barbaric.” Then she lifted her chin. “Whether they choose to go or remain, they need names.”

“Call them all Fred,” I suggested with a glower as we continued down the aisle.

“As they only have limited telepathic communication, that would be extremely confusing for them,” she stated as if lecturing a three-year-old. “Names are special. Unique.”

I groaned. “Telepathic . . .” I shook my head to rid it of the horrifying concept. “You’re telling me that Fuzzykins is okay with being called Fuzzykins?”

“Certainly!” She gave me a look as if wondering whether I suffered from some form of mental disorder. “I would not speak a name for her that brought her distress.”

I was saved from more talk of telepathic cats by the ringing of my phone. A Beaulac PD number. “Kara Gillian,” I answered.

“Hey, Gillian, it’s Marcel Boudreaux,” the familiar nasal voice said. “You busy right now?”

“Nope, whatcha got?” I said. Eagerly. Malfunctioning stop light? Cockroach invasion? Crowd control at a 90%-off shoe sale? Anything to get out of this store.

“Got a detective here from St. Long sheriff’s office with some questions about one of your old cases.”

“Yeah, I can come by,” I said. “I’m only about five minutes away.”

“See you in five then,” he replied and hung up.

“Okay, enough cat toys, Eilahn,” I told her. “Need to go to the PD.”

She balanced a large box atop the rest of her haul. “A fresh water fountain is not a toy,” she lectured. “It is for optimal health, well-being, and happiness.” She indicated the words on the box.

I felt a twitch forming in my left eye. “Fine. Let’s get it and go.”

To my relief she headed for the check out. As soon as she was done I jogged to the car and popped the trunk open, while she proceeded at a more leisurely pace.

“You seem distressed,” she said as she carefully tucked the fountain, cat bed, food, toys, and all the other paraphernalia into the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?” She closed the trunk and gave me a calm smile, though I caught the wicked humor in her eyes.

Yep, my demon bodyguard was a smartass.

I decided I wouldn’t dignify that with a reply and climbed into the driver’s seat. I was even nice and waited for her to get in the car before I drove off.

There was no street parking to be found, and the visitor’s lot was full, so I finally cheated and found a place in the far corner of the detective’s lot. To be safe, though, I quickly traced an aversion ward on the hood, just in case anyone decided to ticket or tow it.

Eilahn lingered in the foyer while I headed through the familiar Investigations door. A sharp twinge of nostalgia went through me as I walked down the hall with its stained tiles and cheap wood paneling and ever-present scent of burnt coffee.

My former sergeant, Cory Crawford, wasn’t in his office. A vaguely familiar young man earnestly typed away at his laptop in the closet-sized room that used to be mine. He’d been a road cop, I realized as I passed by. Must have snagged the promotion when I left.

Yet as soon as I passed the open doorway I had to stop and take a several deep breaths. I wasn’t a cop anymore. I’d known it before, but now the truth of it hit me hard in the gut. Not a cop. I wasn’t really a consultant for the FBI either. What the hell was I now? A summoner? That didn’t adequately describe it. Not anymore.

Squaring my shoulders, I continued on to Boudreaux’s office. He was on his phone, but when he saw me he covered the mouthpiece and said, “Interview three,” with a jerk of his head in the direction of the interview rooms.

I nodded and continued to the side corridor that housed the various interview rooms. The first two rooms were dark, their doors open. The third, at the end of the hall, was lit and the door ajar. I headed to it and peered in, even as a sudden hard shove in the middle of my back propelled me fully into the room.

I let out a startled yelp and stumbled forward as the door closed solidly behind me, but then I registered the other occupant of the room. Gritting my teeth, I recovered and tugged my jacket straight.

“Got all the cops under your thumb?” I asked Farouche with a tight smile.

Impeccably dressed in an obviously high quality steel-grey suit, dark shirt, and pale blue-patterned tie, he stood with the fingertips of one hand lightly resting on the table, silver cufflinks glinting at his wrist as he regarded me. “They are eager to accommodate me,” he replied mildly.

“Must be boring to always have things go your way,” I said with a mock-tragic sigh. “No surprises. No adventure.”

He straightened and adjusted his cuffs, flicked a miniscule bit of dust from his lapel. An elegant band of gold and diamonds rested on the ring finger of his left hand, and I found myself weirdly surprised that he still wore his wedding ring. I knew about the cancer center and his dedication to the search for his abducted daughter, but this clear sign of devotion to his deceased wife struck me on a different level. A sentimental monster?

“How odd,” he said as he took a step toward me. “I’ve always found it to be exhilarating.” He took another step closer, but when I didn’t flinch or back away his brows drew together, and a whisper of tension creased the skin around his eyes.

With a small impatient sigh, I folded my arms over my chest and gave him a bland look. “Is there something you wanted to say to me?”

A look of true bafflement came over his face, and I knew damn well it was because I wasn’t sweating in fear and jumping to do his bidding.

“What have you done?” he murmured, eyes searching over me as if trying to find whatever hidden trick I was using.

Fiendish glee soared through me, but I widened my eyes and brought my hands to my mouth in mock dismay. “Oh no! Was I supposed to call you?” I exclaimed with great drama. “I’ve been sitting by my phone waiting for you to call me!” I fluttered my hands. “Oh my goodness, what a faux pas!” I gave him an innocent look even though fury roiled through me. He was pulling his shit on cops and friends, and that was way beyond the pale.

Yet he didn’t seem to fully hear my words. Feet shifting ever so slightly, his expression flickered for a brief instant in a weird mix of confusion, worry, and anxiety.

A second later it hit me. He’s not in control. And that’s completely unfamiliar territory. Payback’s a bitch, motherfucker.

“It was him . . . Mah zahtal,” Farouche breathed, mispronouncing the name, though it didn’t seem to be intentional. And the Oh shit in his eyes might as well have been written in neon.

I laughed low, and I sang a line from “My Boyfriend’s Back.”

Uncertain and shaken—though it was clear he fought to keep it hidden—he shot a look to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room and flicked his hand to the door. A few seconds later it opened, and he departed without another word.

Now that he was gone, my pulse hammered at the insanely close call. I counted to five then moved to the door and peered out, while keeping a very sharp eye out for any of Farouche’s cronies.

Instead I saw Eilahn bound around the corner, consternation on her face that shifted to stark relief as she saw me in one piece.

Still she pulled me fully into the hallway, raked an assessing gaze over me then peered hard into my eyes before relaxing. “I saw the ginger one and him as they departed,” she told me with a low growl beneath her words. “Forgive me. I did not expect a threat in this place.”

“No reason for you to,” I reassured her. “And you can’t ride my ass everywhere. I figure you’d have known if I was in any real danger.” I went on to relate everything that happened.

“You sang to him?” Her brow puckered. “Is this a traditional means of taunting?”

“Well, sort of.” I paused to consider. “But it depends on the song. ‘We Are the Champions’ is certainly better than ‘Muskrat Love.’” Then again, the latter would probably be more effective as torture. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. “I’ll educate you on the way home.”

Before we left the station I stopped by Boudreaux’s office to find out what he knew about Farouche and why he set me up to be in a room with the man. As much as Boudreaux and I failed to get along, I nevertheless knew in my gut that he wouldn’t deliberately fuck me over. Had Farouche put the fear whammy on him?

Yet, if anything, it turned out to be the opposite. Farouche had wanted to surprise me with a job offer, Boudreaux told me, eyes near glowing with an eager desire to please Farouche. It hadn’t occurred to him to question the scenario, because this was how Farouche had wanted to meet with me.

I extricated myself from the weird conversation and left the station with Eilahn. “Bryce was right. It’s not just fear,” I said after several minutes of brooding and driving. “He can also lay on the charisma and make people devoted and loyal.” I shuddered. “I’m not sure which one scares me more.”

“He is a very dangerous man,” Eilahn muttered.

I continued on home in complete agreement.