Secrets of the Demon
Page 1
Chapter 1
The heavy music pounded through me, making my teeth vibrate and the muscles in my back tense in reaction. I leaned against the wall, as much as to have a good vantage to watch the seething mass of people in front of the stage as to ground myself from the incessant beat. Cigarette smoke burned the back of my throat and the stench of stale beer and sweat coiled around me in a noxious miasma. Every now and then I’d get a whiff of something putrid, letting me know me that I’d picked a spot too close to the bathrooms. I was in a good position to see the majority of the bar, but the raised alcove I’d claimed for my use suffered from a distinct lack of air flow—which probably explained why it was empty.
A few feet below me the dance floor was getting some vigorous use—its denizens clad in fishnets and corsets, PVC and leather, ball gowns and “Little Bo-Peep” outfits, and every possible combination thereof. Past the dance floor and through a broad brick archway I could see that the long bar was packed three deep. I was in serious need of some ice water, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough to brave the crush at the bar.
<You do not enjoy this activity.>
I jerked in surprise at the feel of the demon’s voice in my head. I’d summoned tenth-level demons before, but this particular zhurn was the only demon who had ever chosen to speak with me mind to mind. <This is not my preferred leisure activity,> I replied, tensing with the effort of communicating with the demon in this fashion. <I don’t really care for crowds.> It wasn’t as simple as merely thinking a sentence, which is what I’d always imagined it to be. Instead it felt as if I had to push the thought along the mental bindings that held the demon in this sphere. It was creepy and unsettling, and I couldn’t help but be relieved that the zhurn were the only demons who ever chose to communicate this way.
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.
The heavy music pounded through me, making my teeth vibrate and the muscles in my back tense in reaction. I leaned against the wall, as much as to have a good vantage to watch the seething mass of people in front of the stage as to ground myself from the incessant beat. Cigarette smoke burned the back of my throat and the stench of stale beer and sweat coiled around me in a noxious miasma. Every now and then I’d get a whiff of something putrid, letting me know me that I’d picked a spot too close to the bathrooms. I was in a good position to see the majority of the bar, but the raised alcove I’d claimed for my use suffered from a distinct lack of air flow—which probably explained why it was empty.
A few feet below me the dance floor was getting some vigorous use—its denizens clad in fishnets and corsets, PVC and leather, ball gowns and “Little Bo-Peep” outfits, and every possible combination thereof. Past the dance floor and through a broad brick archway I could see that the long bar was packed three deep. I was in serious need of some ice water, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough to brave the crush at the bar.
<You do not enjoy this activity.>
I jerked in surprise at the feel of the demon’s voice in my head. I’d summoned tenth-level demons before, but this particular zhurn was the only demon who had ever chosen to speak with me mind to mind. <This is not my preferred leisure activity,> I replied, tensing with the effort of communicating with the demon in this fashion. <I don’t really care for crowds.> It wasn’t as simple as merely thinking a sentence, which is what I’d always imagined it to be. Instead it felt as if I had to push the thought along the mental bindings that held the demon in this sphere. It was creepy and unsettling, and I couldn’t help but be relieved that the zhurn were the only demons who ever chose to communicate this way.
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.
