Secrets of the Demon

I waited for a response from the demon, but my answer had apparently been sufficient. Maybe it’s bored? Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much for it to do. I’d only summoned Skalz as a contingency backup, even though I thought it very unlikely that we would need one. It had also been a while since I’d summoned a zhurn and this had been a convenient enough excuse.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re having fun,” FBI Special Agent Ryan Kristoff said from beside me. It probably should have been a whisper, or at least sotto voce, but the music was so loud it ended up being more of a shout.

“Not true,” I said/shouted back. “It’s a goth bar. I’m supposed to look miserable!”

His eyes crinkled with humor. “It’s good to see that you’re embracing your undercover persona so thoroughly.” I gave him a rude snort which only made him laugh. “So you don’t like being on the ‘financial crimes’ task force?”

I had to smile at that. I was a homicide detective for the Beaulac, Louisiana, PD, and a few months ago I’d been the lead detective on the Symbol Man serial killer case. I’d met FBI Special Agents Ryan Kristoff and Zachary Garner during the investigation and had been surprised to discover that both agents were quite accepting of the existence of the supernatural and arcane. Later I’d been asked to join a multi-jurisdictional task force that dealt with white collar crimes and financial malfeasance—which had confused me until I’d discovered that this particular “financial crimes” task force also dealt with anything that had a supernatural or paranormal element.

“Okay, I’ll admit that this is a thousand times better than slogging my way through financial statements.” I knew what I was talking about, too. I’d paid my dues in white collar investigations before finally getting promoted to homicide. “But I still think the only reason we’re here is because Zack wanted to meet Lida Moran.”

Amusement flashed in Ryan’s eyes. “Well, she has been receiving death threats, which makes it a Homeland Security issue, which technically we’re a part of.”

Ryan ignored my rude snort and continued. “And she’s from Beaulac, so it makes sense for you to be in on the investigation, right?”

“And, since she’s performing in New Orleans your little multi-jurisdictional task force fit the bill oh so perfectly,” I said. Two days ago the manager for Ether Madhouse had notified the FBI that strange threats had been left on the fan forum of the band’s website—messages stating that a “demon would consume Lida on stage” during one of her concerts. The IP address of the threats had been traced to a coffee shop in Beaulac with an open wireless connection, which meant that it could have been anyone. Hence the decision to go undercover at the concert.

I slid a glance to where Zack was “staking out” the area in front of the stage. To the average observer it probably looked like he was dancing with great enthusiasm. For that matter it looked like that to me as well. His tanned face, sun-bleached hair, and athletic build contrasted sharply with the pale faces around him, but he was so clearly enjoying the music that no one in their right mind would ever suspect him of being undercover. I couldn’t help but smile. I never would have guessed in a million zillion years that the FBI agent who I’d mentally dubbed “Surfer Boy” had a thing for goth metal bands with female lead singers.

“Cognitive dissonance,” I said with a shake of my head.

“And the threats did mention demons consuming her soul . . .”

I raised an eyebrow and Ryan raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. It’s true! My partner has a fanboy crush and was looking for any excuse to get close to Lida Moran.” Then he laughed. “I still think you should have worn the outfit that Zack found for you.”

I leveled a glare at him. “There is no way that I will ever wear a corset on duty.”

Ryan summoned an innocent look. “But think of how well you would have blended in!”

“And think of how well I could manage in a foot pursuit wearing a leather miniskirt and red Mary Janes with five inch heels!” I shot back. Zack had enthusiastically produced the aforementioned “undercover” garb, and my reaction had been less than gracious. I’d very reluctantly allowed Zack to lace me into the corset, simply because I was curious to see if it could actually give me something resembling a figure. I tended to think of myself as shapeless—waist and hips damn near the same size, with the boobs barely edging them out. I wasn’t fat by a long stretch, but I had zilcho muscle tone, and I wasn’t going to be wearing midriff-revealing tops anytime soon. But the corset had given me a shitload more figure than I was prepared for. I’d taken one look at my corseted self in the mirror and then yanked it off, informing Zack that I couldn’t possibly wear it since I couldn’t breathe in the damn thing. But the truth was that I’d been stupidly and prudishly mortified at the thought of going out in public with my boobs shoved up and out like that—even though I was secretly tickled to see how I looked with actual cleavage and a defined waist.

I’d tried the shoes next. They were utterly lovely, but even though I’d enjoyed the sensation of being five foot ten, I was completely incapable of taking more than three steps in them without wobbling. And I’d flatly refused to try on the miniskirt, since there was no way in all of creation I was going to let the general public see my pale and out-of-shape legs.

Zack had finally exchanged everything for an outfit that I was far more willing to wear in public—a pretty nifty quasi-Victorian ensemble with ruffled blouse, fitted pants, and brocade jacket, along with a pair of gorgeous ass-kicking jack boots. My deeply buried inner goth had fallen madly in love with the boots, and was now trying to figure out some way to justify keeping them. For the rest of my “look,” I’d layered on the eyeliner and attempted to tease my hair out into something somewhat wild, but my hair had stubbornly refused to stay teased or wild and had quickly fallen back into its usual boring straightness. I’d finally streaked red and pink through it, while praying that it really was as temporary a dye as the package claimed. I wasn’t a huge fan of my natural hair color—I usually referred to it as “rat’s ass brown”—but I’d yet to work up the nerve to permanently color or highlight it, and pink streaks were certainly not the direction I’d ever want to go with it. I’d been briefly tempted to buy some colored contact lenses—blue or green . . . anything but the current dull dark gray—but finally decided that would be going a bit overboard.

For his part, Ryan was decked out in a black T-shirt with buckles along the shoulders and black industrial pants with more buckles and rivets down the sides. The shirt was tight enough that I could see the ripple of his abs through it, and I had to admit—privately—that he looked awfully damn good in black. Every other woman apparently thought so too, judging by the gazes cast his way.

“It’s too bad you can’t pull off the goth look,” I said with a shake of my head.

He looked down at what he was wearing and frowned. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “But no matter how hard you try to dress the part, you still carry yourself like a federal agent.”

His mouth twitched in a smile and he slouched against the wall. “Better?”

I shook my head. “Now you look like a fed trying to look casual. I still think you could have shaved your head into a mohawk, like I’d suggested.”

He gave a mock-shudder. “I’ll take a lot of risks in this line of work, but that’s one thing I don’t plan to do.”

“Chicken shit,” I teased.

“My current style’s not good enough for you?”

My gaze flicked up to his hair. His natural color was brown with hints of red-gold highlights, and he kept his hair short enough to comply with FBI regs but long enough that the barest hint of curl showed. I’d never admitted it out loud—and probably never would since we seemed to be locked in a sometimes awkward “just friends” mode—but there were times when I really wanted to run my fingers through his hair.

Now was not one of those times. He’d used a frightening amount of hair product in what looked like an attempt to make it spiky. Unfortunately his hair was too short for him to achieve the desired look. Or rather, I hoped that what he’d achieved was not the desired look. And then there was the color.

“Ryan,” I said grimly. “Your head looks like a hair-brush that’s been soaked in grape juice. What did you dye it with? Kool-Aid?”

“Now that was just plain mean,” he said with a sad shake of his head.

I scanned the crowd, feeling a strange relief that tonight—so far—was turning out to have less than the usual amount of awkward tension between us. Ever since I’d saved Ryan’s life by swearing myself to the demonic lord Rhyzkahl as his summoner, any feelings Ryan might have had for me were locked down pretty tight—not that I had any certainty there ever were. And, unfortunately, I couldn’t blame him. The demons seemed to hold some sort of odd antipathy toward Ryan, calling him a kiraknikahl, or oathbreaker, though I had no idea why. And even though Rhyzkahl didn’t own me, or anything like that, and the only service I’d sworn to perform was to summon him, nonetheless I was still bound to the demonic lord, and I could understand if Ryan wanted to keep me at arm’s length.

I hated it, but I understood it.

My gaze was drawn to a black-clad figure smoking a cigarette against the wall near the bar. He wasn’t dancing or even twitching to the music, and when my eyes rested on him he turned his head to give me a lazy smile, as if he could feel me looking at him. For all I knew he could. This was the fourth member of our little team tonight. Marco Knight was a detective with the New Orleans police department, and since we were in the city, we needed someone with local jurisdiction in case anything happened. He’d apparently worked with the team before, when they’d worked cases in the city. Ryan hadn’t told me much about him, except to say that “he got it.” And I hadn’t picked up much more when I’d met him, though after he shook my hand in greeting I had the odd feeling that he knew a lot more about me. One eyebrow lifted and then a sardonic smile crossed his face as he murmured, “Complicated,” before releasing my hand.

Complicated? Yeah, that pretty much described my life.

I looked away, annoyed at myself for being . . . unsettled? Intimidated? I couldn’t really explain why, but I wasn’t comfortable keeping my attention on him. Or vice versa.

I returned my attention to the stage. Lida Moran was the lead singer for Ether Madhouse as well as one hell of a guitar player. Her fingers flew over the strings as she threw herself around the stage with gusto, belting out something that might have been lyrics. I really couldn’t tell, but the crowd didn’t seem to care whether they understood what the words to the song were. She was good, though. I had to give her that. Nineteen years old, five foot ten, and with the kind of body that most of the guys I knew would dub “smokin’ hot,” she had a powerhouse voice that wowed everyone who heard her, whether they liked her style of music or not. The other three members of the band had some decent musical chops as well, though I wasn’t much of a judge of that sort of thing. But I could tell that they didn’t suck.

“Isn’t she a little young for Zack?” I asked, casting a dubious glance at the singer. The purple streaks in her long, jet-black hair seemed to glow under the lights, and I could see the flash of metal from the numerous piercings in her ears, nose, and eyebrows. “How old is Zack anyway?”

Ryan’s brow creased. “I have no idea. I guess late twenties or so? But don’t worry. He’s a fanboy, but that’s as far as he’d ever take it.”

I caught a snatch of lyric through the driving beat. And the watchers on patrol / hunt the creatures in the night / until the demon eats your soul / and you have to leave the fight.

“So, you’re the big bad demon summoner,” Ryan said. “Do you listen to this sort of music?”

I shook my head. “Not in the slightest! Give me some Faith Hill or Carrie Underwood any day.”

“Country music and demon summoning,” he said with a wince. “Now that’s cognitive dissonance.”

The driving beat ended and the lights dimmed. Lida set her guitar aside and the band shifted to a slower, almost sultry number. I let my breath out in relief at the cessation of the pounding. “Last set,” I said with a nod toward the stage. “That’s what the threat said, right?”

Ryan gave a nod, expression completely serious now. “See anything?” he asked. It was a twofold question. He was asking me if I saw anyone or anything suspicious, but he also wanted to know if I felt anything out of whack. Anything to do with the arcane.

I shifted into othersight, then shook my head. “Nah, just the usual background buzz you’d expect . . .” I paused, feeling the brush of something. I scanned the crowd again, eyes narrowing. What the hell? “Hang on, I think there’s—”

My words choked off as a strange resonance slammed into me. I felt a sharp stab of pain at the base of my skull, and then the lights went out.