Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

“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—”