Book of Shadows

CHAPTER Twenty-five

Garrett stood for a paralyzed moment, realizing he was loath to touch her. He fought down the feeling and sprang forward to kneel by her side. She was breathing, and when he felt for her pulse it was fluttery, but present. He scooped her up and lifted her, rising to his feet, only half-conscious that his driving impulse was to be away from the circle, away from the pentagram.
He left the circle with its candles still burning on the quarters, and carried Tanith from the room, through the door into the inner reading room. Her hair was against his face and she was a sweet, live weight in his arms, breathing shallowly against his chest. His heart was pounding out of control. He started to cross to the outer door, but she moved against him and said, “Here . . .”
He looked around him and set her carefully down in one of the high-backed leather chairs, then stood by her side as she put her head down on the table, her breathing still labored, but slowing.
Finally she lifted her head and reached for the pitcher of water she’d left on the table. She was too shaky to lift it and Garrett took it from her and poured liquid into the goblet. She clasped it with both hands and drank greedily, draining the whole cup, then she grabbed for the cakes she’d left on the plate. For the next full minute she ate and drank without speaking, as if she were ravenous. Garrett couldn’t keep his eyes off her; his head felt as if it were going to explode. He was overcome by the impulse to get out, to get as far away from there as possible—and the desire to sweep her up again, crush her to him. Finally she leaned back in the chair, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and closing her eyes.
After what seemed like an eternity, she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Amber is dead,” she said bleakly. Garrett started; he had not given Tanith the name. “Her killer carved three triangles into her body, and the number 333, the sigils of the demon, just as he did with Erin. And there is a third . . .” She faltered, looking into space. “Not like the others.”
“Not like the others, how?” he managed.
“I’m not sure. Not . . .” she stopped. “I don’t know.” Her face hardened. “He took their heads for his rituals.”
Garrett felt his stomach drop in horror. “What rituals?”
His face must have reflected his disgust, because she made an effort to speak calmly. “Necromancy. It’s a powerful black magic practice. A magician reanimates a corpse to gain information from the nether realm. This one—this man—is probably communicating with the demon through those he has killed, receiving instructions through them—”
Reanimates the dead? Talks to the demon? Garrett’s whole mind was rebelling against everything he had seen and felt. All he wanted to do was get out, get as far from all of this as he could go. But he was going to take what he could from her before he left.
“Who is he?” he demanded hoarsely.
Her gaze became distant. “Someone in the middle part of life . . . he has the bulk of a man. He is alone in the world, unstable . . . a lost soul. He is weak, so he seeks power in the dark: has been courting the demon in secret rituals for some time, and his mind has dissipated; it is the demon who drives him now.” Her eyes slowly focused on Garrett again, and she shook her head. “I saw from a distance only.”
Garrett’s whole skin was prickling, but he shoved down the feeling. Nothing but generalities, useless.
He spoke in agitation. “You said, ‘Three captured, three bound.’ Does that mean he has prisoners?” He didn’t know what he was saying, who he was asking about. Moncrief was in jail; he’d put Moncrief in jail himself.
Her face shadowed, and he heard anger in her voice. “His three victims are dead, but not free. They are between the worlds. The killer has their heads. He’s bound them to him in a ritual and their souls cannot move on.”
He felt fury, and doubt, and she leaned forward, with compassion and urgency in her face. “I’m sorry, Detective Garrett, I know this is difficult for you. I know you don’t want it to be real. But you must understand this. This man is out there now. He will take another victim on Samhain, when the veil between worlds is thinnest and the demon can come through.”
He struggled to block that thought, focus on what was real. “You said three more.” But that thing that had been speaking hadn’t been her, had it? Even now that the ritual was over he was finding it hard to believe that that horrible voice had come out of her throat, that the spasms of that twisted body had been her own.
Tanith was staring at him. “She said that?” she asked, stunned.
“Who? Who is she?” he demanded.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Tanith murmured. “I don’t know what it means.” She looked sick, suddenly weak and faint, but he didn’t care, didn’t want to care. She was right. He didn’t believe her. He didn’t believe any of it. He just wanted out.
“Please,” she said, and reached to touch his arm. He jerked away from her as if something loathsome had brushed him, and felt logic returning.
What were you thinking? Buying into a sideshow performance like that? A few candles, some rhyming mumbo jumbo—it’s an act. This is how she makes a living. Just another gypsy con artist.
She caught her breath . . . and suddenly stood from her chair, staring at him. “You aren’t going to do anything,” she said, her voice shaky. “You really aren’t.”
He couldn’t speak, because he had nothing to say. Demons? No. Not in this lifetime.
“Then go,” she answered him. “If you’re not going to listen, then go.”
“I’m going,” he said, and shoved back his chair as he stood. “Thanks for the show. I understand how that kind of performance would keep you in business.” He turned his back on her, striding toward the door.
“Don’t forget your picture,” she called to him from behind.
He turned, and saw her extending Amber’s photo toward him. He looked down at the image of the lost girl. Tanith moved closer and he reached automatically to take it. Their fingers met with a shock of static, and he flinched back.
“Detective,” she said with contempt. “Fare thee well.”
He turned and pushed through the curtain of stars.
He stood in the hall of Carolyn’s high-rise, ringing the bell.
Inside he heard soft footsteps and the hesitation that he knew was Carolyn putting her eye to the peephole.
After a second she opened the door, and stood barefoot, in a white silk robe. Before she could speak, he had backed her into the marble-tiled hall and kicked the door shut behind him. He pushed her against the wall and bent to kiss her neck, and heard her purr, “Well, well . . .” before he took her mouth, took her breasts, took her, took himself into welcome oblivion.