Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

It had to be a summoning. Everything fit, especially the way the timing of the three-year break fit with the convergence of the spheres. But why use blood magic and death magic for a summoning, unless it was for a demon who couldn’t be bargained with? One with whom agreeable terms could not be set? But what demon could be worth all of this trouble and mayhem? None of it made any sense to me.

I clenched my jaw in frustration. If I could just figure out some way for my aunt to see these smudges, surely we’d be able to decipher them—or at least more so than I was able to do on my own. Unfortunately, there wasn’t even enough left of the arcane traces and sigils to sketch. I scrubbed my hand over my face and sighed. I really needed my aunt to actually look at the body.

Too bad I had no idea how to manage that. I was vaguely aware of Jill shifting behind me, but I continued to focus on the traces and smudges, gathering as much impression from them as I could. They were fading even as I studied them. Beyond frustrating.

I finally stood, knees creaking after being forced into a crouch for so long. “All right, I guess we can call the coroner.” I turned and walked back the way I’d come in. “I assume the rest of the area has been swept?”

“Nothing,” Jill replied. “I mean, the usual cigarette butts and trash, but nothing else. It’s a ball field, so there are a ton of footprints all over. But no tire tracks or drag marks on the field itself.”

I looked around at the field and its placement in reference to the road and driveways. “It would have been pretty easy to carry the body over here. He doesn’t look like he weighs all that much.”

“Yeah. Skinny little fuck,” she agreed. “Probably a homeless crackhead.”

“Maybe this one will actually have a criminal record, so we stand a chance of identifying him.”

“I’ll take prints when the coroner gets here and run them as soon as I get back to the office.”

I smiled, grateful. “You rock.”

Jill laughed. “Yes, I do.”

A whistle caught my attention, and I looked up to see my captain standing on the other side of the crime-scene tape, motioning me over. Jill made a rude noise beside me.

“God forbid he should actually enter a crime scene,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

I suppressed a groan. I respected his reasons for not entering scenes. I really did. But, unfortunately, Captain Turnham still wanted to know what was going on beyond the tape, and he had developed a rather aggravating habit of whistling to his detectives and motioning them over every few minutes so he could find out what they’d come up with.

Not even six in the morning and he was already showered, shaved, and dressed in clothes that held more starch than I had ever worn in my entire life. “Morning, Gillian,” he said when I reached him. “What do you have?”

“Morning, Captain. It fits the pattern of all the others. Shitload of torture—burned in a zillion little lines.” I shuddered. “It’d look really cool if it wasn’t so nasty.”

“Symbol on the body?”

“Right above the pubic bone. And cause of death is probably going to be ligature strangulation.”

He nodded, face impassive. “I pulled Boudreaux and Pellini from their other cases for the day to canvass for witnesses, but I’m working on getting you some permanent help.”

“I met Agent Kristoff yesterday during the autopsy on the other victim.” Some sourness must have crept into my tone, because my captain gave a dry laugh.

“He didn’t light your fire?”

“He barely spoke to me.”

“You know how some of those Feds are. He isn’t even officially assigned yet. He called me after the body was found at the wastewater plant and asked for the file.”

“Well, that’s strange,” I said, frowning. Hadn’t Kristoff said that he’d been assigned to a task force?

The captain gave a half shrug. “Actually, not really. He’s on another task force that focuses on ritual murders and cult things. He’s probably evaluating the case to see if it falls under their sort of thing.”

“Oh, jeez.” I groaned. “Is he the kind who’s going to insist that it’s satanic rituals?”

Captain Turnham’s mouth twitched slightly. “I’m well aware of how you feel about that.”

“Sorry, Captain, it’s just that it gets a little old having the ‘satanic’ label slapped onto everything—especially when the people don’t have a fucking clue about satanism. It’s almost as bad as when they start screaming about witchcraft.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “Your aunt’s been ranting again?”

“Yeesh, you should hear her whenever she gets wind of that sort of thing. She’s considered an expert on the occult and paranormal, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” He tilted his head. “It still amazes me that she never gets hassled for that. This is the Bible Belt, after all.”

I shrugged. “Everyone just thinks of her as a harmless eccentric.”

He nodded, absently polishing his glasses on his sleeve. “So, did Crime Scene find anything that we can work with?”

“Not yet.” I paused, then decided to take a chance. “Look, Captain, I know this is going to sound insane, but is there any way I can bring my aunt out here to take a look at the body?”

His brows lifted. “Are you kidding? Look, I know she’s an expert on the occult, but the chief would lose his mind if I brought a civilian in to look at a corpse.” He paused. “But I’ll let you show her some pictures, see if maybe you can get that symbol identified.”

I’d done that right after I got the old Symbol Man file, but of course I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“So, is there going to be a task force? I’m thinking it would be pretty nice,” I said. Even with Mr. Personality , I added silently. Boudreaux and Pellini aren’t exactly falling over each other to help me out .

A grimace flickered across his face. “I agree with you, Gillian. I think that there’s sufficient reason to form one, and I’m still pushing the issue. But the chief isn’t ready to announce that these bodies are Symbol Man victims. Bad press, you know?” He spread his hands.

I looked back at the pitiful lump on the ground. “Yeah, well, if either of these victims had been the daughter or son of an upstanding member of society, we’d have had FBI, CIA, NSA, FAA, you name it, crawling all over this place.”

“He’s picking his victims well. People no one gives a shit about.”

“No. He’s wrong,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Because I give a shit about them.”

“And that’s why you’re the lead on these cases. Because you’re a stubborn, obnoxious, tenacious bitch.” His dark eyes flashed in rarely shown humor and something that might have been approval.

I laughed. “Aw, Captain, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t let it get out. I have a reputation to maintain.” He lifted his chin toward the bleachers, where a man sat with an imposing Rottweiler on a leash. “That’s Reverend David Thomas over there. He’s the one who found the body.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll let you know what I find out.” I turned and headed to the bleachers.

The man looked up as I approached, and my first thought was that he didn’t look at all like a preacher. He was dressed in utilitarian gray sweats and worn sneakers. Then I realized that I was looking for a clerical collar but that this was a preacher, not a priest. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his face was weathered, though not heavily lined. He looked to be well on the far side of middle age, probably late fifties, perhaps early sixties, though he also looked like he was in pretty good condition, which made it hard to tell. I had known out-of-shape forty-year-olds who looked older than fit and trim octogenarians.