Diana Rowland - Secrets of the Demon

I spent close to an hour doing more searches and poring over websites. Oddly, it was a site catering to fantasy role-playing games that gave me the first ping of possible recognition. A golem was listed in the pantheon of monsters, but instead of being animated by religious ritual, it was basically a statue of clay “possessed” by an earth elemental.

I sat up straighter. There’d been something about earth elementals in one of the books I’d taken from my aunt’s house, but I’d skimmed right over it since there’d been no accompanying reference to golems or constructs. My knowledge of elementals was rudimentary at best. I’d always assumed that such things didn’t really exist anymore, or if they did, there was no one left who knew how to control them. Kind of a boneheaded assumption, now that I thought about it.

For over a decade I’ve been operating under the concept that the only “magic” in the world was the kind I dealt with—using the natural power of the world to summon otherworldly creatures. And that’s stupid. I scowled at my own rigid thinking. I was too used to automatically assuming that the majority of the people who claimed to have “powers” of some sort or another were full of shit. And how was that attitude any different from someone assuming that my skills and abilities were bullshit, or, worse, due to some sort of evil pact with Satan?

And what about the essence eater? I reminded myself. A few months ago I’d tracked down a murderer who’d been consuming people’s souls, or essences. In fact the reason I was now sworn to Rhyzkahl was a direct result of the confrontation with the killer—the only way I’d known to save Ryan’s essence from being consumed as well. That killer was hardly the sort of arcane practitioner I was used to.

I frowned, the memory of a conversation with Rhyzkahl suddenly bubbling to the surface.

“There are many humans with the ability to shape and manipulate potency,” Rhyzkahl had told me. “Some can open portals. Some can draw power from essence. A rare few are little more than parasites. You are all descended from the same source.”

There’d been no time to press him for more details, and then I’d forgotten all about it in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So, perhaps calling and controlling an earth elemental was simply another way of manipulating potency. And what had Rhyzkahl meant about “the same source?”

The buzzing of the phone on my desk sent my train of thought crashing into a deep ravine and I barely managed to resist the urge to snatch up the receiver and yell, “What?” Instead, I took a deep breath and gently picked up the receiver.

“Detective Gillian,” I said, tone nicely crisp and professional.

“This is Mayor Fussell, Detective Gillian. If you have a few minutes, could you come by my office? I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

Nonplussed, I actually stared at the phone for several heartbeats before returning it to my ear. “Mayor Fussell, I’m sure I can make time to meet with you. May I ask what this is about?”

“We can discuss that when you get here, Detective,” was the curt reply.

I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. “Certainly, sir. I’ll be right on my way.”

I hung up, fighting down anger by running through a few mental calming exercises. I had a damn good feeling I knew what this was about.

I shut down my computer and exited my office, then headed straight for my sergeant’s. He looked up from his computer as I swung into his doorway, his eyes narrowing at the expression on my face. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t controlling my anger as much as I’d hoped.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I took another deep breath. “I’ve been called to the mayor’s office,” I said. “Is the chief here?”

Crawford scowled blackly. “No, he’s in Baton Rouge for a meeting.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And I’m sure the mayor knows it. Did he say why he wanted to meet with you?”

I shook my head. “No, but he didn’t sound as if he wanted to give me a puppy and flowers. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about.”

“Ben Moran,” Crawford said, yanking his jacket on. “And yes, I’m coming with you. What a complete crock of shit.” He glanced at me. “You have a voice recorder on your phone?”

I blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good, and I have one too. We’re gonna nip this shit in the bud.”

The mayor’s office was across the street from the station, and I had to resist the urge to skip and bounce on the way over. Funny how knowing that someone has your back makes all the difference in the world. But more than that, it was a relief to know that Crawford wasn’t going to let the weirdness of the other day influence his support of me as one of his detectives. I could accept that he wanted to keep his head in the sand with regards to the bizarre stuff I was involved in. It was unrealistic for me to expect—or even hope—that everyone could be as readily accepting of the arcane as Jill was.

But my gut was still tight with nerves as we crossed the street. My job was not civil service, which meant that the mayor definitely had the pull to get me fired if he saw fit. And my days with the task force might definitely be numbered, I thought grimly.

On the way over I gave Crawford a summary of what was going on with my investigation—though I carefully censored out the not-so-normal aspects. An oddly pained expression crossed his face briefly after I finished, as if he knew I was holding something back, and I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for the man. He truly did his best to be a good cop and an effective sergeant, and I’d unintentionally created a harsh dilemma for him. And no way to take it all back now. I wonder if he regrets stopping to help me? A whisper of remembered fear curled through me at the thought. If he hadn’t helped me, something bad would have happened. I knew that. Probably he did too. But I couldn’t really blame him if he did harbor a measure of regret.

Entering the city administration building, I forced myself back to the here and now. Crawford and I rode the elevator in silence to the third floor where the mayor had his office. I gave the receptionist my name and advised her that the mayor was expecting me, and was completely not surprised when she replied that the mayor was on an important phone call and that it would be a few minutes.

“Keep me waiting,” I murmured to Crawford as I took a seat in the waiting area. “Establish his control over the situation. I’m betting a beer that it’ll be at least ten minutes.”

He muttered something rude under his breath and dropped his eyes to his watch. “Fifteen.”

“That’s a bet.”

At the ten minute mark he tipped his watch to me and tapped it, expression turning smug. Thirty seconds later the receptionist told us we could go in, and I had to bite back a laugh. “Beer’s on you, Sarge,” I whispered.

But I carefully wiped all traces of humor from my face as I entered, though I took a small amount of pleasure in the annoyance that flicked across the mayor’s face at the sight of Crawford entering with me. Mayor Peter Fussell was a relative newcomer to the political game. The owner of a local chain of grocery stores, he’d made a run for mayor when the previous officeholder had to step down because of term limits and had won mostly because he’d poured a staggering amount of money into the campaign. In his late forties or so, with a trim build, brown hair, and blue eyes, he had the combination of looks and charm that had most assuming that Peter Fussell would be running for a higher office in the not-so-distant future.