Mark of the Demon

CHAPTER 10

The house didn’t look like much, just a single-story brick thing with unadorned windows and lackluster landscaping. The lawn had been mowed in the past few days and there was no trash in the yard, but it had a kept-up-just-enough look that made me suspect Mr. Cerise rented the place. A dark-blue Toyota Corolla with two flat tires was parked in the driveway, and a quick peek inside revealed what looked like a gym bag in the back seat, a pile of papers that looked like they might contain drawings, and several crumpled bags from various fast-food establishments. I jotted down the license number in my notebook on the off chance I might need it later, then made my way up the cracked walkway.

“He’s not there during the day,” I heard from behind me before I could ring the bell.

I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of a driveway on the opposite side of the street. She was easily well into her eighties, dressed in bright yellow velour sweatpants and jacket, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight that I decided the woman probably had twice as many wrinkles as were immediately evident.

“He’s usually gone all day,” she said, glancing up and down the street before crossing, chin up and a fixed smile on her face. I could see the woman’s eyes flick busily over me, from my clothing to my badge and gun, all the way down to my shoes.

I could peg this one. The ultimate in nosy neighbor. As a detective, I usually loved this sort. As a person, this was why I had a house twenty minutes away from civilization.

I gave the woman a bright smile. “I appreciate the information. I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the PD. Do you know where he works?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”

I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”

“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.

That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”

Ms. Dailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, he sits at that place and doodles in a notebook, sometimes talking and joking with those drug addicts.” She made a disgusted noise. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up just like them!”

Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone to actually reach out to those people. I knew the center she was talking about. A couple of years ago, several of the local churches had cooperated to create a community outreach center that I had to grudgingly admit was proving to be pretty effective. Though I was about as far from a churchgoer as one could be, even I had occasionally steered people who were having trouble coping toward the place. It had also become the “in” thing to be involved with for local politicians, and just about anyone of any importance was on the board of directors in some capacity.

But now I was intrigued about Mr. Cerise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said, being deliberately obtuse. “He does drugs with them?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, it’s possible! It’s not just that outreach center either. He wanders in bad sections of town, hangs out in the park, gives money to bums …” She gave a not-so-delicate shudder. “Plus, he dresses like a hippie, and with that long hair of his …” She gave a sniff. “I’ve called his landlady several times about him, but all she says is that he pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems.” She made a face. “I don’t know why she won’t listen to me.”

“Did she ever live here?” I had a suspicion as to why the landlady didn’t pay much heed to Ms. Dailey.

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, for several years. Then she got married and moved to the other end of the parish. She put the place up for rent, and he moved in near the beginning of this year.”

No wonder she doesn’t listen to you. She’s dealt with you in person, I thought, controlling my urge to snicker.

“Is Mr. Cerise in trouble?” Ms. Dailey continued, her expression eager and hopeful, very obviously wanting it to be true so she could have proof that all her suspicions were correct.

“Oh, no!” I said with wide-eyed disingenuousness. “I’m just here to talk to him about his volunteer work with crippled children,” I lied smoothly.

Her smile turned rigid and forced. Ms. Dailey’s disappointment was obviously crushing, but she put on a brave face. “Ah. I see. How nice.”

“Is Mr. Cerise a bad neighbor?”

Ms. Dailey wagged her head. “Oh, he just worries me to death.” Now she was changing her act to Concerned Neighbor. “He comes in and out at such strange hours.” Then she leaned close and lowered her voice. “But at least he isn’t black,” she said, giving me a knowing nod. “I was worried when Dana told me she was renting the place out, and I even asked her to make sure she didn’t rent it to any of the wrong sort.”

I somehow managed to keep my face immobile. “Well, don’t you worry about anything, ma’am, and I appreciate the information about where to find him.”

Ms. Dailey gave a sniff, then spun and marched back across to her house, bright yellow velour swishing with each step.

I watched her go, feeling ever so slightly soiled, then returned to my car. If I were that landlady, I think I’d have been tempted to rent to the “wrong” person just to annoy Ms. Nora Dailey.

Most of the churches that had sponsored the outreach center were in the middle of town, a lovely area with clean streets and flowering trees and a pleasant view of the lake. The outreach center was nowhere near there, since the nice people who diligently attended worship didn’t care to have the tourist section of town marred by such a thing and didn’t want to have to actually see any of the people who used the center. As a result, the outreach center was located several miles away, on the outskirts of town, well away from the lake and any possible contact with tourists.

Trash lingered a bit longer in the streets here, the sidewalk was cracked, and the few trees were scraggly, pathetic things that did little to improve the looks of the area. The stores were a far cry from the dainty antiques shops and upscale clothing stores that could be found in midtown. Instead, there were scatterings of secondhand-clothing stores, pawnshops, and the occasional bail bondsman. A diner of questionable cleanliness did a fairly steady business across the street from the center.

The building that housed the outreach center was unremarkable—a two-story white structure made of cinder blocks and aluminum. The sign above the double glass doors in the front was peeling and leaning at a dubious angle, but the glass was spotless, and there was no trash out front.

I pushed in through the doors and walked down a short hallway, entering what looked like a common room. I saw the eyes of everyone inside flick to me and then quickly away as soon as they marked me as a cop. There were about half a dozen people in the room, watching TV, flipping through magazines, or quietly playing board games. There was an unoccupied pool table in the corner and an unused computer on a scarred metal desk against the wall. Faded inspirational posters were scattered on the walls, some with “artistic” additions and commentary that had likely been done by the people who were meant to be inspired. I scanned the room, vaguely recognizing a couple of faces from encounters on the street, then realized with chagrin that I had no idea what Greg Cerise even looked like. Well, I knew that he dressed like a hippie and had long hair. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow it down too much in this crowd.

“Detective Gillian?”

I turned at the sound of my name, then smiled as I saw the preacher from last week in the park approaching. This time he was dressed in attire that made it far easier for me to believe he was a clergyman—dark pants, oxford-style shirt, modest-size crucifix on a chain around his neck. “Reverend Thomas,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to see you again. I didn’t think I’d run into you over here.”

He smiled, weathered face crinkling around his eyes. “My church is heavily involved in this center. I like to come by here and help out when I’m not too busy.” His expression turned more serious. “So what brings you down here? Do you have any more information about Mark?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m still working on that. Actually, right now I’m looking for a man named Greg Cerise. I was told he sometimes comes down here. Do you know him?”

A flicker of what might have been surprise crossed Reverend Thomas’s face, so quickly that I didn’t have time to fully identify it. “Yes,” he said, with the barest of hesitations. “Yes, he’s here. He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?”

What was it with thinking this guy was in trouble? “No, I just wanted to talk to him about some of his artwork.”

Relief suffused his features. “Oh, whew.” He gave an apologetic grin. “Sorry. I like Greg. I really do, and I think he’s incredibly talented. I just worry about him sometimes.”

“Why is that?”

He spread his hands. “I can’t really put my finger on it. He’s a nice guy, but he seems very lonely. He’s not a ‘loner,’ though,” he said, making quote marks with his fingers. “He gets along with everyone, and I think he’s really made a difference to some of these folk. He’s a terrific artist, and he draws a lot of the people here, but …” He smiled. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s as if he draws the reality of what they could be. It’s for this comic book he puts out. But when the people see the drawings he does of them, it … it makes a difference.”

Now I was intrigued. “How so?”

“I think it makes them see what they have the potential to be and motivates them to achieve it.”

“That’s fascinating. Is he here?”

Reverend Thomas nodded. “He’s upstairs, in the office all the way at the end of the hall on the left. Just go through the meeting hall and you’ll see the stairs in front of you. Greg tends to spend the mornings out here with the people or down at the park and then works up in the office in the afternoons. He rents it from us.” He gave a small laugh. “We’ve told him he could have the space for free, but he insists on paying for it. He says he can’t get as much work done at home, because there’s always something else that needs to be done, and this way he doesn’t see the laundry and the dirty dishes.” He gestured in the direction of the meeting hall. “You can go on up. He doesn’t mind interruptions.”

“Thanks, Reverend. And I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out about Mark.”

He gave me a warm smile and took my hand, squeezing it gently. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything from me.”

I returned the squeeze, then turned and headed through the doors to the meeting hall and up the stairs.

Even though the carpet was stained and worn, the place was kept as clean as it was possible to keep an old building. There were no inspirational posters upstairs. The walls and doors were bare up here, except for one. It wasn’t hard to figure out which office was Greg’s; it was obviously the one with pencil sketches and fragments of scenes pasted haphazardly all over it. I took a moment to peruse the drawings, narrowing my eyes in satisfaction as I saw rough sketches that closely resembled several different levels of demon.

I tapped politely at the door.

No answer. I leaned my head toward the door. I thought I could hear someone in there moving around. I knocked again, a little harder.

Still nothing. I grimaced. I didn’t want to make a big scene and pound on the door, but I also didn’t want to walk away empty-handed. I sighed and gave a normal police knock.

The door was yanked open so suddenly that I took a defensive step back, then recovered and took stock of the man in the doorway. Above-average height, wearing worn jeans and a dark T-shirt, with light-blue eyes and a slender, unmuscled build. He was older than I’d expected, with gray scattered throughout his shoulder-length light-brown hair and lines adding texture to his face. Probably about my aunt’s age, I decided, and with an open almost-smile on his face that made him seem incredibly likable even before I’d spoken word one with him. A smell of cigarette smoke clung to him, and I could see a scattering of ash on the front of his shirt.

The almost-smile split into a true smile and he laughed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was listening to music on my iPod and was caught up in a little project, and then I heard the knocking on the door so I leaped up, thinking it was some kind of emergency, and then instead it’s a gorgeous woman, and I’m sitting here wondering what kind of lottery I won!” His grin was beyond infectious, and I found myself grinning as well.

“No lottery,” I replied. “Sorry. Actually, I’m with the police.” I handed him my business card. “I’m Detective Kara Gillian. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk to me?”

The grin vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed-little-boy expression of awe. “Oh, wow, police! Has something happened?”

Was he really this innocent or was he one hell of an actor? “No. To be honest, this isn’t really a police matter. I’m hoping you can help me out with something.” This would get weird and uncomfortable if he’d never actually met Rhyzkahl. What little rep I had would go south pretty damn quick. “You’re Greg Cerise, the artist for the Shattered Realm comic, right?”

The smile returned, shy pride, but now with a touch of wariness. “Yeah, that’s my best work. What do you need to know?”

I shifted my notebook in my hand and gave a mild grimace. “This may take a moment to explain. Do you mind if I come in so we can talk?”

“Oh! Sure. I’m so sorry. Come on in!” He stepped back and gestured me in. He was like a puppy, all eager to please. A thick odor of nicotine surrounded me as I stepped into the office, which was so small I thought I could probably touch both walls at the same time by extending my arms. There was a small desk with a portable drawing table set upon it, with a work in progress of what looked like a mermaid fleeing a sea creature. An ashtray overflowing with butts perched precariously on the arm of a chair, and the walls had the faint yellowish stain of nicotine. Every wall was covered with more sketches and drawings, a few in color but the majority in either pencil or pen and ink. There was also nothing arcane in the room, I noted. No traces or resonance, which would be there if anything related to the arcane had ever been done in that room.

“Have a seat!” Greg said before I had a chance to examine any of the drawings on the wall closely. He picked up a stack of notebooks from a chair and dumped them onto the floor. I sat carefully as he perched on the edge of his work chair and looked at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath. This was where it was going to get weird. “Okay, this is going to sound kind of … out there,” I began. I pulled out the picture that I’d printed from the website. “Who is this?” I pointed to the drawing of the character that so resembled Rhyzkahl.

Greg went still, looking down at the drawing. I watched him closely as his animated face shuttered and withdrew, color fading in it like a dress left in a store window for too long. He gave the casual shrug that I was expecting. “It’s just a drawing. I mean, all my stuff is fictional.” He looked up at me, an expression of puzzlement on his face, but after seeing the true animation of before, I could see how this expression was a pale copy of his true emotions. He shrugged again, one shoulder twitching up on command. “It’s no one. Why?”

I touched the image lightly with my forefinger. “I don’t think this is no one.” I looked up at him with a small smile. “I think this is someone you met once.”

He swallowed visibly but gave another shrug. Each time he performed the gesture it became more and more twitchy and awkward, as if descending down a slope of unbelievability. Could he really be this ingenuous? If not, he was a fucking good actor.

“You can’t really be serious,” he said, shaking his head in a quick vibration. “It’s no one. Just something I thought of.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice to make him work to hear me. “No, it’s not just something you thought of. I need to know when and where you met him.”

He paled completely this time, color draining away. “I … don’t know what—”

“Yes. You do,” I said softly. “You know his name. You’ve seen him.”

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, and I watched in morbid fascination as it began to make its way down the side of his face.

“You don’t know,” he said, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked at me with fear in his eyes, and I suddenly realized that it was not the usual fear that the public has for the police but a fear that I was something more. Well, I am, I thought.

I turned the piece of paper around so that he could see the drawing fully. “His name is Rhyzkahl, isn’t it?”

He let out a strangled moan and rose from the chair. I stood as well, not certain if he was about to bolt.

“How … Oh, dear God, how do you know that?” He looked at me with terror forming in his eyes.

I let out a breath, relieved. I’d been a little worried that perhaps I was making myself look like a total idiot with this insistence that this was Rhyzkahl. With Tessa’s help, of course. Tessa had led me on many other wild chases that had proved embarrassing and fruitless. It was strangely refreshing to find that this one might actually pan out.

But right now Greg Cerise was terrified of me. Well, maybe he could stay terrified of me, at least a little. I drew myself up. “Because I’ve called him to me.”

To my shock and dismay, he laughed and relaxed. “Oh, right. You called Rhyzkahl. You? Who are you?”

I blinked. “I’m a summoner.”

He sat down again, this time leaning all the way back in his chair and looking up at me. “Okay, I can maybe buy that. Maybe.” He shook his head. “But there’s no way that you called Rhyzkahl.”

I scowled and sat, feeling myself losing ground quickly in this questioning. “Then how do I know that you know him?”

He shrugged, a true gesture this time. “A picture? Someone told you?” He leaned forward. “So, if you’re a summoner, who’s your mentor?”

I suppressed a sigh. I’d definitely blown this interview. “How do you know about mentors? You’re a summoner, too, aren’t you?” I said, struggling to regain control of the conversation.

He laughed. “Hell, no. That’s not my path.” He reached over to the table, shook a cigarette out of a pack, and stuck it in his mouth. He tilted the pack toward me, offering, then lit the cigarette when I shook my head. “I’ve just been around some who are.”

I tilted my head. “Oh? Who?”

He gave me a smile that was back to being nice. “What was your name again?”

I didn’t bother to hold back the sigh this time. “Kara Gillian.”

He laughed. “Oh, man. I wasn’t paying attention when you introduced yourself at my door. I don’t usually pay attention to names. I mean, not on purpose. But I’m kinda ADD, and names tend to slide right by me. Two seconds after someone introduces themself I have to ask their name again.” He grinned at me. “Is Tessa your aunt?”

Oh, jeez. “Yeah,” I said, resisting the desire to slouch. “Tessa Pazhel is my aunt.”

He nodded. “All right, then. I believe that you can summon.” He took a long drag off the cigarette and shook his head. “But trying to say that you summoned Rhyzkahl?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s a stretch to believe for anyone with any clue.”

I was quickly going from liking the guy to finding him intensely aggravating. I leaned back in the chair, away from the smoke, and folded my arms over my chest. “And why is that?” My voice was calm, but there was certainly challenge in it.

Greg looked at me, pausing with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. “Because you can’t just summon Rhyzkahl. Not and survive. He’s a Demonic Lord.” He snorted in a way that reminded me way too much of my aunt. “So either you’re a completely clueless summoner—and those don’t stay alive very long—or,” he pointed at me with the cigarette, “you’re fucking with me and trying to get me to say something.” He took a drag off the cigarette and then leaned forward and stubbed it out on the arm of the chair. “You don’t need to fuck with me.” He gave me a smile that was back to being normal and friendly. “Just tell me what you need to know.”

I put on a sweet smile. “I would very much like to know how you know what Rhyzkahl looks like.”

Greg sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Your aunt knows. I mean, we were there together.”

I frowned. “You two are friends?” Tessa had never mentioned him.

He spread his hands, regret tingeing his expression. “We were friends when we were young and even dated awhile when we were teenagers. But even the best of friendships grow apart. We went our separate ways a long time ago. I don’t get out all that much. I like what I do, and I don’t like people all that much.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I can understand that.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You probably do. You get to see the worst that humanity has to offer. That’s one of the things I like about a small town. Fewer people to avoid.” He grinned. “I went to New York for a few years, trying to do the whole artist-in-New-York thing, but I couldn’t take the whole big-city attitude and could barely afford to live. Then, this past December, I found an investor for the comic, so I moved back down here in January. And sales have been picking up every month.”

“That’s terrific,” I said, since I knew that was expected. But that wasn’t what I was interested in. “Can you tell me how you saw Rhyzkahl?”

He pulled another cigarette out of the pack but didn’t light it. “It was almost thirty years ago. Tessa and I had both just turned seventeen.” He grimaced. “My father was a summoner.” He slowly tapped the cigarette against the pack. “Tess and I used to spend a lot of time together. Even when we were little, you know, back in the days when kids actually went outside and played instead of the crap now where they sit inside and play video games—”

“Or read comic books?” I couldn’t keep myself from interjecting.

Greg gave a small bark of laughter. “Oh, no, they had comics back then, and we read plenty of ’em. But then we’d go outside and pretend that we were those superheroes and bad guys.” He smiled, a reminiscing look on his face. “We had long complex stories …” He shook his head. “Then when we got older we moved on to other interests. Anyway. My father was a summoner, as was Tessa’s mother.”

I couldn’t completely keep my face still as that bit of information sent a shock through me. Fortunately, Greg wasn’t looking at me and didn’t seem to notice my reaction. My grandmother?

Greg let out a heavy breath. “My father was pretty well skilled. He had no problems calling the minor demons and even called high-level demons fairly regularly.” Greg’s expression grew brooding. “Then my mother became ill. Cancer. I took her to the doctor, but …” He shook his head as if to dislodge an unpleasant memory. “My father decided that he needed the level of … assistance that could be gained only from a Demonic Lord.” He crumpled the cigarette in his hand, watching the flakes of tobacco drift to the floor. “My mother and Tess’s mother, Gracie, were the best of friends, and so Gracie assisted my father in his plan to summon a lord. There were a total of six summoners there—my father, Gracie, a husband and wife from here in town, and then two solo summoners from New Orleans. And, of course, my mother, though not in the circle itself. They all wanted this chance to perform such a major summoning.”

I tried to breathe silently, not wanting to do or say anything that could distract from the tale.

“I knew that my father was planning this summoning. He’d decided he would try to summon Szerain, a minor lord who supposedly was more open to this sort of assistance with the proper callings and terms. I … didn’t agree with my father’s decision. I told him so, several times.” Old pain flickered in his eyes. “I knew when they were going to attempt the summoning and I didn’t want to be alone, so I asked Tess over. Tess and I … well, we used to go down to the basement to fuck.” His mouth quirked in a boyish smile, while I tried not to show my surprise at the frank admission. Then shame flickered briefly across his face. “I didn’t tell her why I wanted her to come over. Just let her assume … Anyway, that night we were going at it hot and heavy when we heard people coming down the stairs, so we hid and watched.”

He took a dragging breath. “I have no idea what went wrong—whether it was the way the call went out or the way it was received out in the other sphere. Tessa told me later that she believes that when one summons a lord, there are different forms and protections and terms that have to be used.” He shrugged. “I’m not a summoner, so I didn’t really know what she was talking about.”

I swallowed and said nothing.

“Anyway, the circle made the call to Szerain,” he continued after a moment, “and something came through. Only it wasn’t Szerain.”

“Rhyzkahl,” I murmured, forgetting my desire to stay silent.

Greg nodded. “They invoked the bindings, but …” He shuddered. “They didn’t realize what they’d done. Didn’t realize at first that it wasn’t Szerain—that they’d summoned a lord who was not amenable to such things.” He rubbed his arms. “They didn’t realize how dangerous and powerful he is. He’s so …”

“Beautiful.”

He looked up at me. “You have seen him.”

I just nodded.

“Damn,” he breathed. “Someday I want to hear how that happened.”

“Finish your story, please?” I urged.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “He was … angry, God almighty, so angry. I could feel it, like a smothering blanket. The bindings that they had were useless. Rhyzkahl scattered them and …” He paled, his hands beginning to shake.

I leaned forward. “What happened?”

Greg clenched his hands together. “I don’t remember everything. But what I do remember is that he knew that Tess and I were there. I don’t know why he didn’t destroy us like the others, but he knew we were there.”

“How do you know?”

He looked up at me. “Because he said so. Pointed right at us while his hands were still—” His voice faltered. “His hands were still covered with my mother’s blood.” He gave a low moan and dropped his head into his hands. “My father asked him to remove her cancer. And he did. God almighty, he did. Every bit of it. Ripped it all from her. It’s been almost thirty years and I still remember that. My father lying dead at his feet, and my mother …” He shook his head, unwilling or unable to say anything more.

I was silent for a moment, then risked touching his knee. “Was everyone else killed?”

Greg took in a heaving breath. “Yeah. It was a slaughter. A fucking slaughter. As soon as Rhyzkahl finished and left, Tess grabbed my hand and dragged me out of there.” He scrubbed at his face. “She kept her head, I’ll give her that. I was totally hysterical, nearly catatonic. She got me away and to a safe place, then she went back and dumped every can of gasoline we had down the stairs and started a fire. Covered it all up.” He sighed, and I could see him pushing the memories back down. “Her mother had been killed, too, but she held it in until it was all over.”

Suddenly so much about my aunt made sense. What a hideous burden to hold for all those years. I felt an odd twinge of guilt for some of the unkind things I’d thought about Tessa. And there was a small part of me that wanted to deny, to refuse to believe that it could have been the same Rhyzkahl, the same Demonic Lord that had killed all those people, but deep down I knew that it was true, knew that he was capable of wreaking that sort of vengeance to satisfy his honor. I’d felt that same rage coming from him, that same capacity for slaughter, before he inexplicably changed his mind and decided to seduce me instead.

“I’d always heard that it was a heater explosion during a cocktail party,” I said.

Greg shrugged, color beginning to return to his face. “There wasn’t much of an investigation. I mean, back then they didn’t have CSI. And the fire was so hot that there wasn’t much left anyway. They just went in and found bone fragments and teeth and didn’t think much more of it except that it was terribly tragic. I mean, this is a small town.” He laughed weakly. “Which is kinda funny when you think about how many damn summoners were living around here.”

I nodded, but it made perfect sense to me. There were areas of arcane power here that tended to draw in people with the ability to take advantage of them, which was one of the reasons that New Orleans was such a hotbed of the “supernatural.”

I closed my notebook. “I appreciate you telling me all of this, Greg,” I said, standing.

He stood as well. “You’ve seen him. And you’re alive. How?”

I shrugged, an unconscious imitation of him. “I wish I knew.”