Mark of the Demon

“Well, damn,” I breathed shakily. It was sorely tempting to grab him and pull him back for more, but the memory of Tessa’s warning about his nature stayed me. Why is he doing this? There’s just no way he’s this smitten with me. “I, uh … am flattered to know I have that sort of effect on you.” I took a steadying breath. “But please don’t do that again.”



He lifted a silky eyebrow. “You have regrets?”



“I … don’t know,” I said honestly, relaxing a bit now that I knew he wasn’t really in the room with me. I grimaced and pushed my hair back from my face. “The thing is, I don’t usually do that sort of thing. I mean, the casual-sex thing.” I met his eyes. “And if not for the fact that you gave me your word, I’d be worrying that you had somehow compelled me.”



His expression hardened ever so briefly. “I did not break my word. The choice you made was your own.”



I nodded. “I know, and I’m glad that you let me make that choice.”



He stood and folded his arms across his chest, looking down at me. “I wish for you to trust me.”



“I don’t even know you,” I said with a touch of asperity. “And you’re a Demonic Lord. Why do you care if I trust you?”



“Why do you deliberately avoid and evade companionship?” he countered. “We shared a potent pleasure, you and I. I gave you my word that I would not harm you or compel you. You ache for something that I would gladly give you. Why do you deny yourself?”



He was getting way too close to psychoanalysis territory for my liking. I scowled. “It’s not just about the sex, y’know.”



“You desire a partner—one with whom you can share your hopes, dreams, desires, and fears. Someone with whom you can face the trials of existence and make plans for the future.”



I stared at him in surprise. Wow. He got it.



“I cannot be that person for you,” he continued before I could speak. “But would you deny yourself the single course placed before you simply because you cannot have the entire banquet?”



He sure did know how to present a convincing argument. But doubt still nagged at me. “Okay, well … I’m gonna run with your metaphor here and say that if I have nothing but dessert I’m going to be too sick to enjoy a banquet if it ever comes my way.”



He laughed and sat beside me on the bed again. “You are as clever as you are strong. It is no wonder I desire more of you.” He reached a hand toward me and then paused, not yet touching me. His eyes met mine. “May I?”



That simple request sent an erotic rush through me that nearly knocked me over. He’s unspeakably powerful, yet he respects my boundaries…. Or at least he can put on a good show of it, my inner cynic pointed out.



“What do you want to do?” I asked, somewhat breathlessly.



“Touch you. That’s all. May I?”



“Yes.” I managed to choke the word out, pulse suddenly throbbing.



He reached to my breast and caressed lightly through my nightshirt, circling the nipple casually. Heat flooded me, and I had absolutely no fear that it was due to any compulsion from him. This was 100 percent my own reaction.



A smile lit his blue eyes, then he took hold of my nipple and squeezed lightly, releasing it at my intake of breath and returning to a slow and incredibly sensuous caress.



“This is really all a dream?” I said with a shaky grin.



His laugh was crystalline beauty, sharp and bright. “Truly, it is.”



“But … I’m not just dreaming about you being here. I mean, you came into my dream, like, um … a telepathy sort of thing, right?” The inexorable movement of his hand was making it tough for me to think.



He inclined his head slightly. “That is a reasonable analogy.”



I took an unsteady breath. “Look, even though this isn’t … um … real, I’m not sure I want to sleep with you again.”



“I respect that,” he said gravely. “Yet I would still freely give you pleasure if you would accept it.”



Just a dream. Safe. I swallowed, pulse galloping in an incredible combination of anticipation and apprehension. “Why? I mean, don’t get me wrong … but what are you getting out of this?”



He was silent for several heartbeats, a brief expression of sadness skimming across his face almost too quickly for me to register it. But when he lifted his eyes back to mine, there was only the deep and potent power in them. “I enjoy your company. I wish for you to trust me.”



Is he lonely? I wondered suddenly. Did Demonic Lords experience feelings of isolation? Okay, that’s just crazy. But he was watching me intently, and I found myself giving him a nod of permission.



He placed his hand in the center of my chest and gently pushed me to my back. He kept me pinned down lightly, and I knew he could feel the mad pounding of my heart beneath his hand. He slid his hand between my legs and began to slowly caress me. “There is much pleasure I can give you,” he said, voice like silk. “You are safe with me.” He slid a finger inside me, slowly working me with an expert touch. I dropped my head back, breathing unsteadily.



“Daaaamn.” There was no denying that he was good at this. He’d probably had centuries of experience. I groaned and clenched my hands in the sheets. “Holy shit … do you do this often?” I said with an unsteady laugh.



He didn’t answer, merely smiled and continued to work his fingers. He kept his other hand between my breasts, giving me just the lightest suggestion of being held down, without making me feel trapped or threatened. My climax began to build and I moaned, squeezing my eyes closed, insanely aroused. He expertly toyed with me, bringing me repeatedly to the point of climax, then slowing and allowing it to retreat until I was nearly screaming in frustration.



He brought me to the peak again when I was near mindless from wanting it, then abruptly stopped, fingers stilling within me as I throbbed and pulsed in need.



“This is not the only gift I could grant you.” His voice was soft but intense.



I let out a low whimper. I could feel the orgasm, see it just barely out of reach. All he had to do was flick his fingers that way.



I took a ragged breath. “Please … What do you want from me?”



“Call me, Kara.” He moved his hand, skillfully bringing me to my climax, working me perfectly as I cried out and arched my back in release, keeping me at the peak longer than I could have ever imagined possible.



I gasped unevenly as he finally slowed and gently withdrew his fingers. I opened my eyes and focused on him, with effort. He was watching me carefully, an unreadable expression quickly shifting to a brilliant smile as he met my eyes. He straightened. “Call me to you. I can give you so much more.”



The alarm clock shrilled, sending me fighting through the tangled sheets in shock. It took nearly half a minute of the familiar sound penetrating through the fog that filled my brain before I realized that Rhyzkahl was no longer in the room. I slammed my hand down on the alarm clock to silence it, still feeling the shimmering echoes of the orgasm. Light filtered through the blinds, but I fumbled the nightstand light on as well and looked carefully around the room.



He was most assuredly not there anymore. And a continued inspection of the room confirmed that my gun was still in its usual spot in my nightstand.



“That was … unexpected,” I murmured, frowning. So he could touch my dreams? I threw off the covers and stood, feeling a ridiculous urge to run through the house and turn each and every light on, unable to shake the lingering sense of disquiet. I didn’t feel tired, so whatever he’d done hadn’t robbed me of any sleep. In fact, I felt quite rested.



I worried my lower lip as I padded barefoot to the kitchen. But he can come to my dreams. That’s … fucked up. Even with a mind-scrambling orgasm. Or maybe because of it. I hadn’t expected to ever encounter him again, and yet he’d sought out my dreams just to … to what? Just to pleasure me?



I put on a pot of Café du Monde coffee with chicory, allowing my thoughts to ramble unchecked as it brewed. Call him. He wants me to call him. He’d said that several times. But what the heck was that supposed to mean? Did he want me to summon him again? He was out of his demon mind if he thought I was going to attempt a summoning of a Demonic Lord—especially after somehow fucking up a fourth-level summoning.



I groaned. I wasn’t at all willing to risk summoning him, but here I’d had a powerful arcane Demonic Lord in my dream and I’d completely missed my chance. I could have asked him about the traces and the symbol!



I sighed and poured my coffee, adding significant amounts of creamer and sugar to dull the bite of the chicory. I wonder if Rhyzkahl would really tell me what I want to know if I called him. Though it would probably help if I knew what this “call” entailed. He said “call,” not “summon,” I mused. What was the difference?



I took my mug out to the back porch and sat on the wooden swing. The view was limited to a small wooden shed and the woods that surrounded my house, but it was quiet and serene and usually allowed me to forget about the outside world. I didn’t maintain anything resembling a lawn around the house, and this time of year, wildflowers sprang up in chaotic arrangements anywhere there was enough sunlight. A mockingbird sang lustily from somewhere nearby, and I tucked my feet underneath me while I curled my hands around the mug, warming my hands against the morning chill and trying to settle my nerves.



“Right, settle your nerves by slugging down some double-strength coffee,” I muttered to myself. But coffee was one of my comfort foods, and next I’d go after the chocolate and the potato chips.



The memory of Rhyzkahl’s visit was vivid, unlike a dream, which would have faded to haziness by now. Had he merely touched my dreams? I had to admit, there was no physical evidence on my body or in the room, which would have been there had he been present in the flesh.



Justa dream. Justa strange and erotic and unsettling dream visit from a Demonic Lord with whom I had a one-night stand. Nothing at all to get worked up about.



I scowled and finished my coffee, then showered and dressed. And on the way to the office stopped and bought a half dozen chocolate doughnuts.



I spent the morning in my office on the Internet, running queries on absolutely everything I could think of, from demons, to symbology, to blood magic and anything else that popped into my head. By lunchtime, I’d come up with a ridiculous amount of useless information—most of it inaccurate—and had eaten all of the doughnuts.



I groaned and leaned back in my chair, feeling slightly ill from the massive quantity of sugar and fat slogging through my bloodstream and frustrated and uneasy about my lack of progress on the case.



Oh, yeah, and my dream visitor who sure as hell didn’t feel like a dream. That was just one more piece of fun to throw into the mix.



A dull headache began to pound behind my eyeballs. I sighed and rubbed at my temples, then on a whim leaned forward, pulled up a search engine, and typed in the name of the comic book that my aunt had shown me.



“Hot damn,” I breathed. It was apparently a fairly popular graphic novel, with a pretty comprehensive website devoted to it—ordering information, history and storyline, and even quite a few sample graphics.



Including pictures of Rhyzkahl.



Okay, it probably wasn’t actually him, but how the hell had this guy managed to draw something so damn close? I hit the print button on my computer as I continued to scrutinize the pictures. I hadn’t examined the comic very closely at my aunt’s house, so I took the opportunity now.



It was him. The more I looked at it, the more certain I became. The white-blond hair, the Adonis-like build, the enigmatic smile, and the crystal-blue ancient eyes—holy shit, the eyes! Somehow this artist had seen or met Rhyzkahl before.



I clicked through the site, looking for information about the artist, but it was surprisingly bare. That was odd. You’d think that an artist would want to promote himself. Or herself. There was only a name: Greg Cerise.



But even if there wasn’t much artist information on the site, there was a page all about how to order and where to order from. To my surprise, the address for mail order was a local P.O. box.



“So how did this artist encounter him?” I murmured to myself as I did another search on the artist. On a whim I pulled up LexisNexis.



I narrowed my eyes at the information on the screen. Now, wasn’t that some shit? Not only was there actually a person named Greg Cerise, but—surprise, surprise—he lived in Beaulac.



A thrill of excitement ran through me. I could go talk to him, find out what he knew about Rhyzkahl—get a viewpoint other than my aunt’s. And I could even justify going while on duty, since I knew that the murders were connected somehow to the arcane, right?



Okay, so that was a stretch. The guy drew pictures of my demon lover. That hardly qualified as a connection. I suppressed my insistent twinge of guilt and tried to ignore the voice that reminded me that the chief had recently chewed me out for acting like a nutjob. Yeah, well, the chief has no idea that the Symbol Man is working in the arcane.



I allowed myself a smug smile as I quickly printed out the address information. Being a nutjob might prove to be a job requirement.



Chapter 10



The house didn’t look like much, just a single-story brick thing with unadorned windows and lackluster landscaping. The lawn had been mowed in the past few days and there was no trash in the yard, but it had a kept-up-just-enough look that made me suspect Mr. Cerise rented the place. A dark-blue Toyota Corolla with two flat tires was parked in the driveway, and a quick peek inside revealed what looked like a gym bag in the back seat, a pile of papers that looked like they might contain drawings, and several crumpled bags from various fast-food establishments. I jotted down the license number in my notebook on the off chance I might need it later, then made my way up the cracked walkway.