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She laughed. “Yes you do, and since there are none to be bought, I’ll hunt down a recipe. But, in the meantime, at least you have kittens.”
“Demonic battle kittens.”
“Those are the best kind.”
Chapter 21
It had been nearly a year since the summoner Tracy Gordon attempted to create a permanent gate to the demon realm, using me as the sacrificial focus. That was also when Mzatal and Idris finally succeeded in summoning me—a turn of events that ended up being both life-changing and eye-opening, to put it mildly.
The warehouse where Tracy tried to end my awesome life was in a crummy industrial park that had been deserted long before the demonic incursions began. Oddly enough, now that the rest of Beaulac resembled a ghost town, the industrial park didn’t seem anywhere near as creepy as it once did. But creepy or not, one of its warehouses harbored an arcane valve node.
The façade of the warehouse in question was the same dull grey as I remembered, but the double glass doors were smashed. Since we’d seen similar damage on every other building in the park, we felt safe enough chalking it up to the work of vandals or looters.
Within, we found rakkuhr seeping from the node, but no sign of vandals, Szerain, or anyone else. After a thorough search, we left for the outreach center, which was several miles from downtown Beaulac and well away from Lake Pearl or any of the tourist spots. Or rather, former tourist spots. The lake was now home to a sucking whirlpool at one end and a thirty-foot geyser at the other, and toy boats sent through the former came out the latter crushed and iridescent. Moreover, an active fifty-meter rift sliced through the ball fields, the sand at the public beach was a sickly green, and trees in the surrounding woods had an annoying tendency to burst into flame for no discernible reason.
Hunting season was open, but the only game anyone cared about now was demons. No license required and no bag limit.
I’d first visited the outreach center during my search for the Symbol Man serial killer. Not long after, said serial killer lured me there as an intended sacrifice for a ritual to summon and bind Rhyzkahl, and I’d ended up eviscerated by the reyza Sehkeril. Fun times.
The neighborhood had been crappy back then and was currently well into majorly shitty. Abandoned cars huddled along the curb, stripped of tires and engine parts. At the end of the block, the burned husk of a pickup lay on its side. Every building bore a variety of spray-painted opinions and pictorial suggestions. The doors of the center were boarded up and chained shut, but similar security efforts on the other buildings hadn’t made a difference. Splintered plywood lay scattered under the broken windows and smashed door of the café across the street. In front of the dry cleaners further down, clothing lay strewn amidst broken glass on the sidewalk.
As I swept my gaze over the street, my cop-sense gave a little tingle. “Every building has been broken into but this one.”
“The vandals might’ve busted in from the back,” Pellini said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe word spread that the chief of police got his head ripped off in here.”
“Dude, the morgue got looted. I’m not so sure these assholes would be scared of a crime scene over a year old.” There were no aversions or other protections on the doors that I could see, but when I rested my hand on the plywood, I felt a faint and familiar touch, an odd arcane whisper like a lingering scent. Though it dissipated even as I tried to focus on it, it was enough. Szerain.
“Bingo,” I breathed.
“Well?” Jill demanded.
“I sensed Szerain,” I said. “Just a whiff, but it was him.” I glanced at her. “I don’t know what to expect in there, so we need to stay on our toes. For all I know, Xharbek has demons prowling around while our people are holed up in an office.”
Jill drew her gun and flashlight, expression fierce. “I’m ready.”
With bolt cutters and a crowbar, we made short work of the chains and boards. Pellini and I pulled the doors open and, by unspoken agreement, let Jill go in first. She entered, gun at the ready and flashlight sweeping the interior, while I followed an instant behind. Shotgun in hand, Pellini came in last, pausing only long enough to put a small aversion by the door to keep anyone from wandering in after us.
We passed through the foyer and a common room, our breath pluming in unnaturally frigid air—a possible indicator of arcane activity. Or yet another weird weather quirk of the rift-riddled area.
In the main meeting hall, light streamed through chinks in boarded up windows, revealing card tables, folding chairs, and a pair of worn sofas shoved to the walls. In the center of the cement floor, faded chalked sigils and cold puddle
s of melted wax from long-dead candles marked the outline of a large ritual diagram about the size of my nexus.
Jill moved around the perimeter of the room, panning her flashlight over every nook and cranny and crouching to peer beneath furniture. I did the same, though I doubted our people were hiding under the pool table. Still, there was a lot of building left to cover, and my instinct continued to swear this was the right place.
“Jesus,” Pellini muttered. “I remember coming in here after all that shit went down. Blood everywhere, and the Chief of Police lying right there with his head ripped off. I couldn’t believe he was the Symbol Man.”
“The decapitation was Rhyzkahl’s doing,” I said. “Twisted Peter Cerise’s head right off with his bare hands.” All that remained of the blood was a few stains in the concrete. “Can’t say I disagreed with the move, considering the number of people Cerise killed.”
Working quickly but thoroughly, we finished searching the downstairs then made our way to the second floor. The first two offices were unremarkable—bare wooden doors, serviceable desks and chairs, unexciting paperwork. But pasted haphazardly on the third door were pencil sketches of people and demons.
“Are these Szerain’s?” Jill asked, an edge of excitement in her voice. “Isn’t he an artist?”
“No. I mean, yes, he’s an artist.” I blew out a breath. “But these were drawn by Greg Cerise, the Symbol Man’s son.” I’d last seen him alive here in this office a few days before he became yet another victim of his serial killer father. I pushed the door open to reveal a tiny office with barely enough room for two chairs and a desk. A portable drawing table rested on the latter, bearing an unfinished sketch of a mermaid fleeing a sea creature. More sketches and drawings were taped to nicotine-stained walls.
“Damn,” Pellini murmured as he took in the various pieces of art. “He was good.”
“That he was.” I started to pull the door closed then stopped at the sight of a drawing on the floor under the desk. With one finger, I slid the paper out, heart hammering like a college drumline.
