jerking him away from the wall. Elise tossed him into the circle.
The room whirled around him, and his face smacked into the tile.
His flesh enflamed instantly. Something popped. A ragged scream tore from him, shaking his skull, and it wasn’t the scream of a single man—it was the scream of a thousand damned souls writhing in fire.
Rich caught a glimpse of flame licking in front of his face.
Then he didn’t see anything at all.
ONE WEEK EARLIER.
Elise realized she had walked through the pool of blood, and she grimaced. “You owe me a new pair of shoes,” she said, stepping over the arm flopped in front of the TV stand. It was lacerated with a deep gouge from elbow to wrist and perpendicular slices that looked more like tooth marks in the middle.
Lucas McIntyre smiled weakly. “Shoes, huh? How about an IOU on that?”
She bit back a sharp reply. Elise and James were already doing him a favor by stepping in on his investigation in Vegas, so it only seemed fair that he’d be responsible for damages she incurred while on the job. But it wasn’t worth arguing over. Not only did the McIntyres have zero money, but after the Grand Canyon, she was going to owe the guy favors until she died.
When she looked down to see her Doc Martens stained with blood and ichor, it was easy to forget that she was so deep in his debt that she couldn’t see sunlight anymore.
“Don’t worry about it,” Elise said.
James circled the room, studying the murder scene with that look he always got at the sight of dead humans. It was a mix of academic interest and detached horror. Human bodies still bothered him, even after all this time.
Elise nudged the woman’s head over with the toe of her bloodied boot. Looked like she was forty, maybe forty-five years old, with pearl bobs in her ears. There were no bruises at her throat—she had died too soon after the trauma for those to properly develop. But there were burns down her skin, dipping behind her hair, underneath her shirt.
The man, conversely, had been stabbed with a kitchen knife at least six or seven times. His chest and stomach were hamburger meat. One of his hands was still closed over the handle.
“Hell of a domestic disturbance,” Elise said, patting down the woman’s pockets. They were empty. “Why did you call me here for this, exactly?”
McIntyre shrugged. “Does it matter? You were in the neighborhood anyway.”
“San Francisco is the neighborhood?”
“Close enough,” he said. He flipped his knife open and scraped at the crusty material on the woman’s neck. “This isn’t skin. This is sulfur.”
“That’s not normal for domestic violence,” she said as she searched the husband’s clothes. She came up with a business card. Rich Harris, Priest of the Church of Light . There was a website and a phone number. Interesting.
“But sulfur residue is typical of demonic possession,” James said.
“So you called me here to do an exorcism,” Elise said, tucking the card into her own pocket.
McIntyre grinned. “You’re the best I know.”
“I’m the only one you know.”
“Either way, I need you for this. It’s over my head. The demon’s got a funny pattern—it’s wandering all over Vegas and Boulder, and I have no clue how.”
“Incorporeal demons don’t wander,” Elise said.
James put on his reading glasses and gently moved the woman’s chin so he could see the burn marks at her collar. “They don’t wander without vessels.”
Which meant that there had to be a human culprit. Someone like a priest with the Church of Light.
“We need security footage,” Elise said.
She washed her hands in the sink, dried them using the dead couples’ towels, and left with McIntyre to find the security office.
It was nighttime, and nobody was monitoring the cameras that watched the community’s gates. They broke in and stole video files off of the server, which showed the victims in question meeting with someone earlier in the day.
“So
The room whirled around him, and his face smacked into the tile.
His flesh enflamed instantly. Something popped. A ragged scream tore from him, shaking his skull, and it wasn’t the scream of a single man—it was the scream of a thousand damned souls writhing in fire.
Rich caught a glimpse of flame licking in front of his face.
Then he didn’t see anything at all.
ONE WEEK EARLIER.
Elise realized she had walked through the pool of blood, and she grimaced. “You owe me a new pair of shoes,” she said, stepping over the arm flopped in front of the TV stand. It was lacerated with a deep gouge from elbow to wrist and perpendicular slices that looked more like tooth marks in the middle.
Lucas McIntyre smiled weakly. “Shoes, huh? How about an IOU on that?”
She bit back a sharp reply. Elise and James were already doing him a favor by stepping in on his investigation in Vegas, so it only seemed fair that he’d be responsible for damages she incurred while on the job. But it wasn’t worth arguing over. Not only did the McIntyres have zero money, but after the Grand Canyon, she was going to owe the guy favors until she died.
When she looked down to see her Doc Martens stained with blood and ichor, it was easy to forget that she was so deep in his debt that she couldn’t see sunlight anymore.
“Don’t worry about it,” Elise said.
James circled the room, studying the murder scene with that look he always got at the sight of dead humans. It was a mix of academic interest and detached horror. Human bodies still bothered him, even after all this time.
Elise nudged the woman’s head over with the toe of her bloodied boot. Looked like she was forty, maybe forty-five years old, with pearl bobs in her ears. There were no bruises at her throat—she had died too soon after the trauma for those to properly develop. But there were burns down her skin, dipping behind her hair, underneath her shirt.
The man, conversely, had been stabbed with a kitchen knife at least six or seven times. His chest and stomach were hamburger meat. One of his hands was still closed over the handle.
“Hell of a domestic disturbance,” Elise said, patting down the woman’s pockets. They were empty. “Why did you call me here for this, exactly?”
McIntyre shrugged. “Does it matter? You were in the neighborhood anyway.”
“San Francisco is the neighborhood?”
“Close enough,” he said. He flipped his knife open and scraped at the crusty material on the woman’s neck. “This isn’t skin. This is sulfur.”
“That’s not normal for domestic violence,” she said as she searched the husband’s clothes. She came up with a business card. Rich Harris, Priest of the Church of Light . There was a website and a phone number. Interesting.
“But sulfur residue is typical of demonic possession,” James said.
“So you called me here to do an exorcism,” Elise said, tucking the card into her own pocket.
McIntyre grinned. “You’re the best I know.”
“I’m the only one you know.”
“Either way, I need you for this. It’s over my head. The demon’s got a funny pattern—it’s wandering all over Vegas and Boulder, and I have no clue how.”
“Incorporeal demons don’t wander,” Elise said.
James put on his reading glasses and gently moved the woman’s chin so he could see the burn marks at her collar. “They don’t wander without vessels.”
Which meant that there had to be a human culprit. Someone like a priest with the Church of Light.
“We need security footage,” Elise said.
She washed her hands in the sink, dried them using the dead couples’ towels, and left with McIntyre to find the security office.
It was nighttime, and nobody was monitoring the cameras that watched the community’s gates. They broke in and stole video files off of the server, which showed the victims in question meeting with someone earlier in the day.
“So
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