Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

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.