Mark of the Demon

CHAPTER 2

So, what are the chances that it’s the symbol man again? The question dominated my rattling thoughts. The towering pines that crowded the road created an ominous illusion of a dark tunnel as I sped down the deserted highway. Just because a body was found with similar injuries doesn’t mean it’s the same killer, I reminded myself. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be relieved or disappointed if it turned out to be something else. Obviously I didn’t want more people to die, but at the same time I’d been burning with curiosity about the Symbol Man and his victims for nearly three years, and the desire to know was nearly smothering.

The creaky Ford Taurus shimmied annoyingly as I crested a low hill. I could see the lights of Beaulac in front of me, the moonlight reflecting off Lake Pearl beyond the city. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to appreciate the view. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that he would start up again now. Just sheer happenstance that the three-year break would coincide so perfectly with the alignment of the two spheres. Anything is possible, I tried to convince myself, but the feeling in the pit of my gut wasn’t buying it.

St. Long Parish was mostly rural but still within reasonable driving distance to New Orleans—which was why I liked living there so much. A small, quiet parish with the city of Beaulac as its hub, it boasted only a few murders a year and not much other crime except for the usual mix of drug abuse and burglaries. And those rare murders were most often the result of disagreements that had been fueled by alcohol and testosterone.

Lake Pearl had been formed centuries earlier from a convergence of several bayous, and the city of Beaulac had sprung up on its shore, developing a comfortable industry catering to sportsmen and weekend vacationers. Though Beaulac was a city only by the strictest definition, for a few years it had gained unfortunate notoriety because of a serial killer who’d become known as the Symbol Man.

I smacked the dashboard of the Taurus in a futile effort to stop one of the more annoying rattles. Even if this victim bore the same symbol, I had to accept the chance that the killer could be a copycat. I grimaced and whacked the dashboard again, muttering something rude as the radio knob flew off and bounced under the seat.

Even if it’s a copycat, it would still have to be someone who knows the details about the symbol. Pictures or specific descriptions had never been officially released, but I knew that information had a way of leaking out. It only took one officer to talk about it after hours in a bar to make it common knowledge. But Captain Turnham would rain hot death on anyone who spread confidential information about this case. He was an absolute stickler for protocols, which made me even more appreciative of his approval to come to the crime scene.

I made the turn onto the gravel road that led to the water-treatment plant. Surrounding the plant was a wooden fence emblazoned with a large red sign that proclaimed: City of Beaulac Wastewater Reclamation Facilities. A white metal building housed the main offices of the facility, and behind that were a number of large vatlike structures that I assumed had something to do with the actual treatment of the water. I gave a low whistle when I saw how many police vehicles were already there. Parked just outside the wooden fence were five marked units, a half dozen unmarked cars, plus a crime-scene van for good measure. I searched for a spot close by, then finally gave up and parked out on the road. I needed the exercise anyway.

I climbed out of my car, shoving my keys into the pocket of my jeans and tucking my Beaulac PD T-shirt in. I grabbed my notebook, made sure I had a pen that worked, then took a deep breath to quell my sudden nervousness. I’d been working my ass off for so long to get to this point that it felt almost surreal to actually be here, on my first homicide investigation. And then to have it be a possible Symbol Man case … Doubly surreal.

I adjusted the badge holder around my neck as I walked up to the scene. I’d harbored a burning curiosity about the Symbol Man murders ever since I was a street cop on the scene of one of his body dumps. I’d seen the body only from a distance, but even from a dozen feet away I could see the faint scattering of light in my othersight and feel the resonance that would be noticed only by someone who was attuned to the arcane. It had shocked and baffled me, and I’d been left with an uncomfortable certainty that the murders had something to do with the demon realm. What little I’d been able to sense of the arcane resonance felt familiar, and I’d waited with morbid eagerness for another body to turn up, determined to make any excuse necessary to get close enough to feel that resonance again.

And then it stopped. No more bodies were found, and in the last three years I’d even begun to doubt what I’d seen and felt from that victim. I’d been promoted to detective a year after the last murder, assigned to Property Crimes, and now—finally—I was a Homicide detective. I could hardly believe that, in just a few minutes, I might have some answers.

What I would—or could—do with those answers was another matter entirely.

The officer by the crime-scene tape gave me a sour look as he thrust a clipboard at me. I didn’t recognize him, which meant that he’d probably been hired within the last two years—after I became a detective.

“Is it really the same symbol?” I asked as I took the clipboard from him and signed the crime-scene entry log.

“Beats me,” he said, a scowl drawing his mouth down. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the body too close. The suits don’t want us road cops looking around the scene.” I could see he was deeply affronted that he’d been prevented from contaminating a major crime scene. Poor baby.

I kept a neutral smile fixed on my face. Yeah, I was a “suit,” but I’d paid my dues as a patrol cop for five years before becoming a detective. “Bummer,” I said simply as I handed the clipboard back and ducked under the tape. No point in trying to educate him about preservation of evidence at a crime scene. He didn’t seem the sort to be willing to hear what I had to say.

It was easy enough to figure out where the body was. Halogen lamps had been set up to illuminate an area between two enormous vats. White metal staircases led up the sides of each vat, but positioned almost directly between the stairs lay a small lump surrounded by stained concrete. As I skirted the area I could see an outflung arm, dark-blond hair, and a body covered with what I thought might be some sort of net or sheer patterned fabric. I wanted to go check out the body so badly it hurt, to see if there were arcane traces, but I held myself back with a discipline born of a decade of summoning demons. This was not my scene, and I was here only because of my captain’s benevolence. I wasn’t about to risk getting kicked off before I had the chance to soak in as much experience as possible.

I did stretch out mentally to try to see and feel with my othersight, but I was almost fifty feet away from the body and I sure as shit wasn’t sensitive enough to feel anything from that far away, even if the arcane residue had been fresh and strong.

A petite crime-scene tech wearing dark-blue fatigue pants and a PD T-shirt came around the curve of the tank on the left, a sour look on her face as she wound up a long measuring tape.

Her expression cleared when she saw me. “Hey, chick!” she said brightly, giving me a wide smile. “Whatcha doing out here? I thought you were still in Property Crimes.”

I returned the smile. Crime Scene Technician Jill Faciane was not only an exceedingly cool person but she also knew what she was doing and wouldn’t screw the scene up or allow it to be screwed up. Jill had come over from New Orleans a couple of years after Katrina, bringing a wealth of experience and a sharp wit as well. A slender woman with short red hair and an elfin face, she had a determined set to her jaw, a quick smile, and keen blue eyes that were quick to notice details of scenes that escaped most others. She was also smart and sarcastic, which meant that she and I got along great.

“I was assigned to Violent Crimes three weeks ago,” I said. “And, since I’m pretty familiar with the Symbol Man cases, the captain gave me permission to come out and help.”

“Yeah, this is some insane shit! Here, make yourself useful,” she said, as she handed me one end of the measuring tape. “I have a bunch of measurements left, and those useless lugs over there,” she jerked her head toward a knot of people by the main building, “are too important to help get the scene processed.”

I held the end of the tape obediently. “They’re detectives. Come on, you don’t expect them to actually work, do you?”

“Ha!” she snapped, as she manhandled me to stand with the end of the tape near a pipe sticking out of the ground. “You’re a detective, and you work.”

“I know.” I gave a tragic sigh. “I think it’s holding me back too.”

She snickered, then trotted off to a point near the body, made a notation on her pad, and returned to me. “My God, you’d think the media could have come up with something more exciting than ‘Symbol Man.’”

“Well, it was a long time ago. In fact, it was right about the time I became a cop, seven years ago. And it was the big news for a while.”

“Stand by the fence,” she ordered, making more notes. “Well, this is seriously nasty stuff. And what’s the deal with the thing on her chest?”

I moved to the fence, holding my end of the measuring tape as if I’d been born to do it. “You mean the symbol? I don’t know what it is”—and that bugged the crap out of me as well—“but all the victims had that same symbol somewhere on their bodies, burned or carved into the flesh. Thirteen murders in four years, all linked together by that symbol. Then suddenly it just … stopped.” I shrugged and spread my hands, causing the measuring tape to flutter and earning myself a reproving scowl from Jill.

“Almost done,” she said, peering down at her notes. “Lemme get the distance to the gate. Have you seen a bunch of his victims?”

“Nope,” I replied, relocating to the gate. “By the time I became a detective, he’d stopped and it was a cold case, shoved to the bottom of the stack.” I slid a glance to the body, then looked back to Jill. “Didn’t help that his victims were homeless or drug addicts.”

Jill grimaced, rolling the tape up as she walked back to me. “So not much pressure to solve the cases.”

She’d pegged it. “Not much,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a semblance of a task force assigned to the case, but it was a lackluster effort.” I shrugged. “Without a lot of public outcry about the murders, local and federal agencies were less inclined to spend a lot of time or money on them. You know how it is.”

Her brow creased in annoyance. “Oh, yeah, do I.” She took the tape from me and shoved it into one of the side pockets of her fatigue pants. “So how do you know so much about the cases?”

“Got lucky, I guess. I’m brand-spanking-new in Violent Crimes—haven’t even been assigned my first case yet—so I figured I’d see what I could learn from reading old case files. Since the Symbol Man cases are still unsolved, I decided to start with them.” I didn’t mention my own long-standing desire to get my hands on those files. Until I was transferred to Violent Crimes, I’d had no way to justify the request, and, with the convergence approaching, I’d already made up my mind that I was going to find a way to get to those files by any means necessary. Fortunately, my transfer had come through in time and I’d been spared the need to break into the file room. “And since I had some spare time—”

“You what?” Jill chortled. “Y’all get spare time? Oh, man, I so need to transfer!”

“We can trade,” I replied. “How hard can your job be? Take some pictures, measure some stuff, maybe throw some fingerprint dust around.” Her eyes widened in mock outrage, and I laughed. “Anyway, Captain Turnham handed me a large box full of files, pictures, and notes and said, ‘Knock yourself out. Don’t let any of your other cases suffer.’”

“So you do have spare time!” she crowed.

“Nah. I just have no personal life.” I gave a helpless shrug. “Some people date. I bone up on local serial killers.”

“Dear God almighty,” she groaned. “You so need to get laid.” Her gaze shifted to a point behind me. “Well, here comes Crawford,” she said, before I could form a retort to her evaluation of my life.

Not that I had any idea of how to respond—especially since she was frustratingly correct. But there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had too many secrets to get intimate with just anyone, and I sure as hell couldn’t risk anyone finding out about the summoning chamber in my basement. I’d simply accepted that a dearth of companionship was one of the prices I paid to be a summoner of demons.

In my entire life I’d had only two boyfriends, and neither relationship had lasted longer than a few months—each man ending it with the complaint that I was too private and wouldn’t “open up.” I’d fabricated lies and excuses for why I was always busy on the full moon or why he couldn’t stay the night at my place, but the constant deception had been tiring. It was the same reason why I’d never had any sleepovers when I was a kid and why I’d had so few friends—none of them close—in high school. There are worse things to endure, I told myself, not for the first time. Being a summoner is worth it.

I shoved aside the doubt that always accompanied that thought and glanced back at the man coming toward us. Jill kept her expression neutral, but I knew that she didn’t care much for Detective Cory Crawford. He was another transplant from the south shore, though he was from Jefferson Parish instead of the city. Jefferson Parish was just west of New Orleans and had almost as much crime as the city. He’d been with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office for almost fifteen years and working Homicide for over ten of those years, which meant that he had the most experience of anyone at Beaulac PD except for the captain.

And he made sure everyone knew it.

“Prepare to be astounded by his brilliance,” Jill said in a low voice before Crawford reached us, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Cory Crawford was a stoutly built man, not quite gone to fat though obviously battling a growing midsection. He had gray hair that he stubbornly dyed a dull brown, a neatly trimmed mustache that was dyed to match, and brown eyes that were so close to the color of his hair that many suspected he had specifically matched the two. In stark contrast to the all-consuming brown of his coloring, Crawford preferred to wear highly colorful ties, especially favoring the mildly psychedelic Jerry Garcia brand. A faint scent of wintergreen and tobacco clung to him, and I was exceedingly grateful that we were on a crime scene so I wouldn’t have to be subjected to the sight of him spitting tobacco juice onto the ground or into an empty bottle.

Detective Crawford gave a bare nod to Jill and a slight glower to me. “I hear you’re the resident expert on the Symbol Man cases.”

I dragged my eyes up from the wild red and blue pattern of his tie. “Expert? I’ve read the file on the old cases. That’s about it.”

Crawford’s expression soured still further. “And that apparently makes you more of an expert than anyone else here. Or so our captain has stated.”

It obviously pained him to admit that he wasn’t the sole fount of all knowledge. But the detective who’d been the lead on the cases before was retired and long gone, living in North Carolina. And the two other detectives who’d worked with him had both gone to work for other agencies. I knew I was pretty much the only one in the department who was up to speed on the cases, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected the captain to champion me to such a degree. “Er … I guess I am.” I ran my fingers through my hair, somewhat discomfited. No pressure. Yeesh. “So who recognized the symbol?”

“No one has recognized it,” Crawford corrected me gruffly. “This is not yet deemed a Symbol Man case. But Captain Turnham told me to let you take a look at it.”

Holy crap, but that had to have hacked him off. “All right. Let me take a look at it, then,” I said, feigning casualness. I wasn’t about to let him know just how badly I wanted to do this.

Crawford’s lips tightened, then he shot a look to Jill. “Are you finished processing enough for her to go look at the body?”

Jill nodded, maintaining an outward appearance of serene calm. “Yes, of course.”

Crawford spun and marched off toward the body. Jill and I exchanged a glance that we both knew meant What a dick, and then we followed him, trying not to laugh.

All thoughts of laughter died away as I got my first close look at the damage that had been done to the young woman. I sucked my breath in as my stomach clenched. “Holy shit.”

A muscle in Crawford’s jaw twitched. “I’ve never seen anything like this, Kara. It turns my stomach, and you know that I can handle a lot.”

There was nothing covering the body. What I had thought to be netting was actually the woman’s flesh. Precise parallel cuts had been made along the woman’s arms, legs, torso—a slice every half inch from the neck down, so perfectly placed that I could have used the cuts as a ruler. The only deviation in the meticulous spacing of the slices was the symbol that was centered between her breasts, carved into the flesh.

I breathed shallowly as I took in the hundreds and hundreds of thin cuts. None of them was deeper than a quarter inch, but I knew that I was looking at days of torture. It was almost a relief to drag my gaze up to examine the ligature marks at her throat—deep grooves in the flesh of her neck, with her face mottled and red above it. At least the ligature had meant an end to her agony, even if it had also meant an end to her life.

She was probably praying for an end by then.

I struggled to remain impassive and clinical as I looked over the precisely mutilated body, but it took every ounce of my self-control. I swallowed, throat achingly dry, and crouched to get a better look. This was not a brutal hacking. This was almost elegant and artistic, even as it was thoroughly horrific. All these cuts… This was all done while she was alive. And this matched the other victims. Even decomposed, there had been evidence of significant torture on those bodies.

I took a shuddering breath and steadied myself to look more deeply. More important than the strangulation and the mutilation were the features I could see that others couldn’t. I let my vision shift into othersight, breath catching in a mixture of relief and revulsion as the flickers of arcane light appeared. They were faded, but I could definitely see traces of arcane energies scattered on the body.

Just like the body I’d seen three years ago.

And now I could feel the arcane resonance—a hum of power, like a bass speaker a room away. Keeping my hand a couple of inches from actually touching the body, I spread my fingers over the symbol carved into her chest, opening myself further to that resonance. I knew that it probably looked weird as shit to anyone watching me, but I wanted to soak up as much sensation from this arcane resonance as possible.

I pulled my hand away and glanced up at Jill and Crawford, relieved to see that they were looking at the area surrounding the body and had apparently missed my faith-healer impression. Regardless, it would have been worth it. Whoever had killed this woman had been working deeply in the arcane at the same time. Was this the arcane touch that Kehlirik had felt? He’d said it had the taint of blood and death, and there was certainly plenty of that here.

I shifted my awareness back to normal sight. I could still feel the resonance, but at least now it didn’t feel as if my teeth were going to vibrate out of my head. “If it’s not the Symbol Man, then it’s one hell of a copycat,” I said for Jill’s and Crawford’s benefit, but I knew this wasn’t a copycat. Not with the symbol and the arcane traces and the timing that coincides so perfectly with the convergence of the two spheres. That’s just way too much coincidence.

“Looks like we’re going to be busy for a while,” Crawford said as I stood. “Oh, by the way, the captain said he wanted to see you when you got here.”

I nodded. “Is he on the scene?”

Crawford snorted. “As if. No, he’s conferring with the chief and some of the other brass.”

I scanned the area beyond the tape for the distinctive silhouette of the head of the detective division. Captain Turnham seldom went inside the crime-scene tape unless his presence was vitally needed. He despised being subpoenaed simply because his name had been on a crime-scene sign-in sheet and also despised seeing extraneous people on a crime scene, refusing to be one of that number. I guess he doesn’t consider me extraneous, I realized, allowing myself a brief flush of satisfaction at the thought.

Taller than most of the others on the scene by nearly a head, the captain was easy to pick out. As expected, he was standing just beyond the perimeter of the crime-scene tape. With him were Boudreaux, Pellini, and Wetzer—the three Violent Crimes detectives other than Crawford. And how are they going to handle hearing my input in this case? Will they even take me seriously? Pretty doubtful, considering that lot. There’d been a few times when my white-collar crime cases had intersected with an armed robbery or a homicide, and they’d made it quite clear that I didn’t know dick about what they did and that any opinions I had were unwelcome and unnecessary. Crawford had a huge capacity for being an ass, but at least he was fairly good at his job and was usually willing to listen to input.

I left Crawford and Jill by the body and headed toward Captain Turnham. He stepped away from the other detectives as I approached, full attention focusing on me. A tall, thin black man with arms and legs that seemed too long for his body, he’d been a police officer in New Orleans for fifteen years before moving out to “the boonies.” He’d been with the Beaulac PD for almost ten years now. He seemed humorless and dour to those who didn’t know him, but the people who worked with and for him knew that he was merely relentlessly dedicated and overly meticulous. Even now, at three a.m., he was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and khaki pants with creases sharp enough to slice bread, while every other detective on the scene was in jeans and PD T-shirts.

“Morning, Gillian.” Captain Turnham looked down at me over his wire-frame glasses.

“Morning, Captain,” I said with a small nod. “Thanks for letting me come out on this.”

His lips twitched into something vaguely resembling a smile. “I’m going to give this one to you, since right now you know the most about the Symbol Man cases.”

I stared at him for several heartbeats, certain that I’d misheard him. “You want me to work with Crawford and the others on this?”

He shook his head. “No. I want you to take this case.”

I was suddenly insanely grateful that Crawford had remained by the body. I didn’t even want to think what his reaction would be to this. “Sir, you do remember that I have no experience with working homicides?”

“And you never will unless you work one,” he replied with calm logic.

“Well, yes, but—”

He held up his hand to cut me off. “Gillian, you’ll be fine. You’ve proven yourself with your white-collar crime cases, which is why your transfer to Violent Crimes was approved. And it’s not like you’re going to be on your own with this. Crawford and Boudreaux can help point you in the right direction, and I plan on pushing the chief about forming a task force.”

“Yes, sir.” Holy shit. He really is throwing me a Symbol Man case! I gave him my best effort at a confident smile, trying to avoid looking either cocky or nervous. I’d heard that Captain Turnham liked to throw new detectives into the deep end. I just hadn’t expected to be forced to swim so quickly.

“You’re a good detective,” he continued. “You’ll do just fine.” Then in the next breath he said, “But don’t relax too much. It’s in our jurisdiction, which means if we do get a task force, I’m going to make sure you’re the lead.”

Are you fucking serious? I thought. “I appreciate the opportunity,” I said instead, keeping my voice even and calm. It was a damn good thing that he couldn’t hear the racing of my pulse. Holy shit! I’m the fucking lead on a Symbol Man case!

Captain Turnham nodded toward the other detectives. “Tell Crawford to get you caught up. I need to go talk to the chief.”

“Sure thing, Captain.” Oh, yeah, this would be interesting.

Crawford and Jill walked up to me as soon as the captain left. “So, what’s his take on it?” Crawford asked.

I turned to him, making an extra effort to maintain a cool and professional demeanor, even though I wanted to jump up and down in excitement or do something else that would have been completely inappropriate on a murder scene. “Well, he thinks it looks enough like a Symbol Man case to treat it as such.”

He shrugged and nodded. “Okay, makes sense. I’ll need you to fill me in on details as soon as you can.”

“Yeah. About that.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“Captain Turnham said that the case is mine,” I added in a rush.

His eyes widened in shock. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Yeah, he wasn’t one to hide his emotions. “Actually, no, I’m not fucking kidding you.” I kept my tone cordial but firm. “He said I need the experience, and since I have the most knowledge of the Symbol Man cases—”

“You read through the case files a couple of weeks ago,” he exclaimed, face reddening. “That doesn’t make you a fucking expert!”

I blinked, briefly shocked by the force of his reaction. Then I recovered and narrowed my eyes. Screw cordial. I leaned forward, lowering my voice and drawing on my experience in dealing with demons to keep from losing my careful composure. “It’s not my fucking fault, Crawford,” I said, nearly snarling. “I didn’t ask for it, and if it bugs you that fucking much, then take it up with the fucking captain!”

He looked at me for several heartbeats, expression stony. “The security guard who found the body is ninety if he’s a day and is waiting to be interviewed at the front office,” he finally snapped. “You have no other witnesses. Have fun.” With that, he turned and stalked off.

I watched him go, clenching my hands to keep them from trembling.

“Okay, he’s a dick,” Jill said quietly from beside me.

“Yep,” I replied, seething. Sure, Captain. They’re just bending over backward to help me out.

Jill gave me a rueful smile. “You’ll be fine,” she continued. “If a moron like Crawford can be a reasonably competent Homicide detective, you should kick ass at this shit.”

I let out a weak laugh. “Thanks. Actually, I’m pretty excited.” I’d never in a million years imagined that the case would be handed to me, but now that the initial shock was starting to wear off, I wasn’t about to let anyone take it away. Three years ago I’d been just a road cop, working the perimeter of a body dump like this one, not knowing if I’d ever have a chance to dig into why there were arcane traces on that body. I’d even begun to doubt what I’d seen and wonder if it had been a fluke.

But now I knew. The Symbol Man was doing some sort of arcane work and, like it or not—ready or not—I really was the best person for the job.

Jill laughed. “I know that look. You’re hooked in now.”

“Yeah. I am,” I said with a grin. “I’m gonna get this fucker.”

“Good deal. You tell me if you need anything. Don’t be proud.”

“I will. I won’t.”

Jill gave me a thumbs-up, then walked off to speak to the coroner’s office personnel. I leaned against the metal building of the main office, watching as the body was carefully gathered up into a black plastic body bag.

I would definitely summon tomorrow night. There were a number of demons who could probably help me. Perhaps Rysehl? He was just a fourth-level demon, a luhrek, resembling a cross between a goat and a dog with the hindquarters of a lion. He was also a much weaker demon than Kehlirik, which meant that he would be considerably easier to summon. But Rysehl was usually a very cooperative creature and a good resource for esoteric information, despite being merely a luhrek. I could think of several questions to ask him about the kinds of arcane activities that could leave those types of traces on a body.

I pushed off the building. Screw Crawford, I thought. I am the best detective for this case, and I’m gonna prove it.