“He probably didn’t want to pay for regular models,” Garner said. He tapped a latex-gloved finger on the wall. “All these folks are homeless or drug addicts or prostitutes. He could probably buy a couple of hours of their time for about ten bucks or a hot meal.”

“But there are a lot of pictures here. More than the victims that we already have.” I narrowed my eyes. “Which means that some of these people are possibly still alive,” I said. “We need to find them.”

“That’s going to be tough,” Harris said, tucking his thumbs behind his belt as the buttons on his shirt strained dangerously. “But if we can find even one of them, we’ll finally have a strong lead.”

I clenched and unclenched my hands. “We’re close. I can taste it.”

Garner nodded at me, but Harris was silent, his gaze traveling slowly over the display on the wall. “Why don’t you think that this artist is the killer?” he asked. “All the links are here. It seems possible that his death was a retaliation, either by someone he knew or a potential victim.”

I shook my head. “The way that Greg was killed and the way the blood was displayed around him doesn’t indicate a revenge or self-defense death.” Harris should know that. Was he just brainstorming again? Or was he baiting me? Testing me? It was so hard to tell with him. “The pattern is too accurate,” I added, more to myself than to him.

“Accurate?” The beady gaze fell on me.

“Yes,” I replied. I’d worry later about being thought a nutcase. Catching this guy was the important thing now. “Those aren’t random scribbles around the body. It’s just not possible for someone who doesn’t have intimate knowledge of the arcane to be able to set a scene like that. The odds of a potential victim being knowledgeable about that sort of thing are pretty extreme.” I ran a hand through my hair. “No, I think that Greg was starting to figure it out, so he was taken care of.”

“So it’s likely that he was involved.” Harris frowned as he scanned the wall of photographs and drawings. “Perhaps there were two killers, and the other one decided to get rid of Greg before he squealed.” Harris looked back at me, his arms folded across his chest.

I took a deep breath, controlling my annoyance. It was possible. As much as I’d liked Greg, that didn’t mean he hadn’t completely snowed me. “Yeah, it’s definitely possible,” I admitted reluctantly. And Tessa had said that there were two. I opened my mouth to say more, then stopped. I’d told Greg that I was a summoner. There weren’t too many people who knew that. My aunt, Ryan, and Greg. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you could determine just by looking at someone. Well, not for humans, at least. There were some demons that could sense a person’s ability to summon.

So, either Greg told someone that I was a summoner, or I’ve had a demon sniffing around me without my knowledge. The latter was fairly unlikely, though not impossible. Any creature with enough skill in the arcane could remain undetected.

“Detective Gillian, are you all right?”

I realized that I was staring off into space. I jerked my attention back to Harris. “Yeah, sorry, just had a thought.”

“Care to share it?”

I flexed my fingers, excitement growing. “He’s screwed up. It’s the first time he’s screwed up.”

Harris unfolded his arms. “How?”

“Killing Greg. Now we know that the Symbol Man is connected to Greg somehow. He must have felt that he had to eliminate Greg. Maybe Greg was going to rat on him or something, I don’t know.” Another thought struck me, but this revelation was not quite as pleasant. “He screwed up—and it doesn’t matter to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“The diagram around the body. It didn’t serve any purpose except to taunt us.” Taunt me, I corrected internally. “But he doesn’t care, because he’s almost done.”

Garner was watching me intently as well. “With his preparations,” he said.

I nodded.

“And you think that he’s preparing for a big demon calling,” Harris said.

“A summoning, yes.”

Harris frowned. “So it’s possible that this is gearing up to be a big finish, like a cult,” he stated. “We could be looking at a large number of people at risk. And he might kill himself as well. He has nothing to lose.”

I blinked. Where the hell was he getting this from? I shook my head. “Oh, you mean like a murder-suicide thing? Hell, no. He wants the power. The whole reason he’s preparing so carefully is because he does want to live through it.”

Harris’s frown deepend. “Detective Gillian, how is it that you are such an authority on ritual murders?” There was challenge in his tone, and I had to take a mental step back. He was considered a local expert on cults and ritual murders, and I was totally stepping on his toes. Only problem was, the arcane was my area of expertise, and I couldn’t say so. Damn, but I wished Ryan was in here for this.

I took a deep, steadying breath, framing my words as carefully as possible. “I’m not an authority on ritual murders,” I said, then held up my hand when he began to speak. “However, I’ve grown up with and around people who are considered experts in arcane lore, mythology, voodoo, Wicca, the paranormal, and other alternative forms of religion and mysticism. I recognize the patterns on the kitchen floor and, in my opinion, they were placed there by someone who intends to summon a demon.”

Harris narrowed his eyes, face reddening slightly. “All right, let’s assume that our killer really does believe this shit. In your opinion,” and the word was drawled out in a manner that was barely short of being insulting, “is he going to want a pile of victims for his big shebang? And what is he going to do when the demon fails to appear?”

You should be asking what are we going to do when it does appear, I thought grimly. “He’ll try again, if he survives it. He’ll start over from scratch if he has to.”

The faintest hint of a sneer curled Harris’s lip, barely long enough for me to register it before the professional mask came over his face again. He gave me a nod and left the room without speaking. I watched him leave and sighed. It was obvious that Detective Harris didn’t give a rat’s ass that I had a clue about the arcane. In fact, it probably made him think even less of me—I was obviously a fruitcake who couldn’t be trusted to make a logical deduction.

Garner cleared his throat gently. “He, uh, seems very literal, but I’ve worked with him before. He’s actually a pretty good detective.” He glanced up from the stack of papers he was searching through and gave me a wry smile.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, I’m sure he is. And this has to be one of the stranger cases that he’s handled.”

To my surprise, Garner shook his head. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’s worked task-force stuff with us before on some seriously freaky cases, with mass murder and suicide, cult stuff, ritual sacrifices. This is pretty tame, actually.”

I tried not to smile. Except that this stuff was real. And maybe his other cases had been real as well, or more real than he could know. “Well,” I said, “fortunately it looks like we might be on the right track.”

“Kara?” Garner lifted a piece of paper out of the stack he was searching, an astonished expression on his face.

“Yeah?” I said. “Zack? What’s wrong?”

“Kara … this is … you,” he said, then slowly extended the paper to me.

Ryan stepped into the room behind me, moving to peer over my shoulder as I took the drawing from Garner. “Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathed. “It’s you … but, wow. It’s like an über-you.”

I could only stare. It was a drawing of a woman dressed in classic fantasy female-warrior regalia—metal and leather bra, matching short skirt, elegant metal vambraces on her arms, hair flowing free. In other words, unspeakably impractical for any sort of actual fighting. The woman depicted held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other and was shown facing down what I knew perfectly well to be a reyza—fierce expression emblazoned across her face. The woman was beautiful and strong and feminine, and everything about her gave the impression that she was a total badass.

And it was me. I couldn’t deny that for an instant. Holy shit. Is that what he saw in me? The preacher had said that Greg drew the potential in people. Is that my potential? Could I ever be that strong and beautiful?

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or depressed.

“I especially like the outfit,” Ryan said dryly from behind me.

I turned to glare at him. He just grinned. “I think you need to start wearing something like that to work,” he continued.

I couldn’t help but smile, obscurely grateful to him for giving me a point of levity. I didn’t want to think about how far short of that picture I actually fell. “It’s a cool picture, that’s for sure. However, I can promise that you’ll never see me in that outfit.”

But I did tuck the picture into my notebook. Rules of evidence be damned.

Chapter 17

The sky was alight with the pink and orange of dawn by the time we finally finished processing and searching the house. To Harris’s and everyone else’s disappointment, there was no secret basement that concealed a torture and execution chamber, no hidden closets containing arcane implements of death and destruction, and no evidence whatsoever that Greg had actually been the serial killer, or even connected to the killer, other than the pictures in his workroom. I made my way home, blearily stumbling through the back door of my house, barely remembering to lock it behind me. I stripped off my clothes and collapsed onto my bed, falling asleep within half a dozen heartbeats.

I woke late in the day with dim and scattered memories of dreams containing Rhyzkahl—hazy threads of images that bore little resemblance to the powerful sendings of his previous visits. I lay on my back, looking up at the wood of my ceiling, allowing myself to wake up fully. Those were probably actual dreams, I decided, as I tried and failed to remember the content. Dim snatches lingered briefly—images of Rhyzkahl scowling at me, calling to me, and a jumbled memory of me rolling over in bed and telling him to go away and let me sleep. It had to have been a dream. Surely I hadn’t told a Demonic Lord to go away and let me sleep.

The clock on the nightstand showed seven p.m. I sat up, running my fingers through my tangled hair. My internal clock was completely screwed up now, after staying awake two nights in a row. Again.

The one good thing about having slept all day was that I knew it would be easier to be out most of the night looking for people. I showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt that was uncharacteristically devoid of anything police-related, strapped on the ankle holster that held my little Kel-Tec .32 under my jeans, and pulled my shirt down over the holster on my belt that held my Glock 9mm. And, no, I wasn’t going to call Ryan to come with me on this. I wanted people to talk to me. Fed Boy would more likely scare people off.

I drove slowly through town, considering where to start. Beaulac was not exactly a bustling metropolis, even though its population and the population of the entire parish had swelled dramatically after Katrina, much like all the other parishes that surrounded New Orleans. And, of course, that unexpected growth had resulted in an increase in the number of “problem” neighborhoods. Areas that were previously “not so nice” had morphed into “don’t go there after dark,” much to the dismay of the community leaders.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Some of those areas were exactly what I needed. But even armed, I was reluctant to go in without backup. However, I could think of a number of places where I’d be able to find people who could help me out. In fact, the outreach center where Greg had done so much of his work was probably the best place to start. With any luck, Reverend Thomas would be around and able to identify some of the pictures.

I drove past the outreach center, scowling as I saw that the doors were closed by a metal gate. Obviously the people who ran the center were smart enough to maintain a certain level of security on the building. But that also meant I wouldn’t have the chance to talk to Reverend Thomas tonight. There was a small group of about half a dozen people clustered out front, though. I peered at them as I drove by, then smiled in satisfaction as I recognized a face. Reverend Thomas wasn’t the only one who might have some information.

I parked a short distance down the street, then grabbed my stack of pictures and made my way toward the group. They parted before me, giving me a wide berth. Even in plain clothes, I knew that my whole bearing shrieked “Cop!” I scanned the faces quickly, giving them small, tight nods—nothing too friendly just yet.

“Whatcha want here, Sarge?” A grizzled black man with a shortage of teeth spoke. He looked to be in his mid to late forties, with broad shoulders, thick muscles, and scarred knuckles. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at me.

I gave the speaker an easy smile. I knew this one, which was why I’d decided to stop and talk to him. I’d arrested Tio a number of times, but I was always cool with him and he was always cool with me in return. He’d never gone so far as to be an informant, but he helped me out in other ways, such as vouching for my integrity to others who weren’t sure that I could be trusted. Once upon a time, Tio had tried to make it as a boxer, but then he lost one fight too many and ended up eking out a living by more-questionable means. He’d had fights with most of the other cops in the department, but I was always able to talk him into the handcuffs. Good thing, too, since I knew he could totally kick my ass.