Demon Hunting In the Deep South (43 page)

Blake strode back to the desk and sat down. “Have a seat, Clarice. Evie and I were just talking about Meredith’s murder. She seems to be under the misapprehension that
I
killed her. Why don’t you enlighten her?” Clarice remained where she was, her wooden expression unchanged. “No? Allow me, then.” He folded his hands on leather inlay. “You see, my wife killed Meredith. Some misguided notion of getting revenge on me, I suppose. She blames me for the death of our useless son.”

“Not so very misguided,” Evie said. “You did kill him. Trey told me. He saw you.”

Crappydoodle, she’d just outted Trey. Evie could have bitten her tongue.

“Trey told you this?” Clarice stared at Evie and then at her husband. “It’s true then. Just as I always thought. You killed Junior.”

“Not now, Clarice.” Blake shook his head. “She’s such a whiner. I’d have slit her throat years ago, but she has her uses.” He paused. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, Clarice used the Scagel because she knew the police would trace it back to me. She was trying to frame me, the naughty thing. I overheard her ask Meredith to meet her at the mill early Friday morning to plan a surprise birthday party for Trey. Totally unlike Clarice—she hasn’t shown interest in anything since Junior died—so I knew she was up to something. I followed her. Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered my dull little stick of a wife had murdered Meredith and in such spectacular fashion. Clarice was magnificent.” He gave his wife a beatific smile. Merciful God, he was proud of what she’d done, Evie realized with a shudder. “And all these years I thought we had nothing in common,” Blake said. “After she left, I pulled my knife out of Meredith’s chest and replaced it with your letter opener.”

“And later you put the knife in my car,” Evie said.
And stole the knife from the lab in Mobile using your creeper powers,
she added mentally.

“Yes. Meredith told me Trey had asked her for a divorce because he was in love with you. I couldn’t care less if he screwed you—a man is entitled to a little on the side—but I couldn’t have
that
. So, I planted the knife in your car. In hindsight, perhaps, it wasn’t the smartest of moves, but at the time it seemed like a way to get rid of you. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.” He shrugged. “It was the excitement of the kill, I suppose. The blood lust does that to you, exhilarates you and makes you careless. Isn’t that right, Clarice?”

Clarice stood. Her posture and expression were as frozen as a mannequin’s. “I’m going to check on Papa.”

Blake waved his hand. “Yes, yes, do that. Your devotion to him is the only reason I keep you around.”

Moving like an automaton, Clarice walked behind Blake’s massive desk and pushed a piece of scrollwork in the wood. A door slid soundlessly open and she disappeared inside, closing it behind her.

“Every family has its little secrets,” Blake said. He tilted his head, examining her. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me why you’re here.”

“You’re going to kill me. That’s what you do, right? Kill people.”

“It is something of a hobby of mine. I particularly enjoy killing women.” His hungry gaze moved over her from head to foot. “They’re so soft and they squeak so prettily, the little mice.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “But you don’t seem too disturbed by the notion. I must say, that’s unsporting of you. Tasting your victim’s fear is half the fun.”

Evie lifted her chin and glared at him, refusing to let him see her fear. “There are worse things than death.”

“How noble and dramatic of you,” he said. “I suppose next you’ll say life has lost all meaning now that your boyfriend is dead. Please. You’ll get over it and sooner than you expect.”

Opening a drawer in the desk, he unfolded a length of felt and removed a knife. “Ugly, isn’t it?” He held the weapon aloft. “Deer antler handle and a simple stone blade. Crude and unwieldy. Very little workmanship. Nothing sleek or elegant about it, but this knife is worth more than my entire collection. In fact, I daresay this knife is more valuable than everything I own. Do you know why?”

“No,” Evie said dully. Ansgar was dead. The slashing pain in her chest made it difficult to breathe.

He laughed. “No, of course you don’t. This knife, Miss Douglass, is my ticket to power and riches. This knife killed your precious demon hunter, and I know where and how to get more. Enough for an army. Think about it, Miss Douglass. Think what this knife represents, a weapon to defeat the Dalvahni. Give the djegrali such a weapon, and anything I want is mine. Anything at all. My father’s so-called accomplishments will pale in comparison.”

Anger and grief rose up in Evie, choking her. “Bastard,” she said.

The rage boiled out of her. She raised her hand, wanting to strike at Peterson, to hurt him. To her surpise and satisfaction, a ball of green light flew from her fingertips and hit Peterson in the face. It stuck there like slimy pudding. He staggered away from the desk with a howl of anguish.

“It burns,” he screamed, clawing at his face. “Get it off. Get if off.”

Evie pushed out of the chair and staggered toward the door. A misty malformed shape barred her way. The demon bent down and flowed into the room on clawed feet, towering over her and filling the room with the chilling presence of evil and the smell of rotting meat. More than a score of demon wraiths flowed into the study behind him, rubbing against his scaly legs like a cluster of affectionate cats.

“Is this the one?” The harsh voice that grated out of the nightmare made Evie shrivel inside.

“Yes, Drakthal.” Sobbing in pain, Blake snatched up the piece of cloth that had been around the knife and scrubbed at his face. Bits of flesh rolled off onto the felt. He shrieked. “Look! The bitch has burned me.”

Drakthal
. The name sounded familiar. Evie tried to think, but her brain was sluggish with terror.

Memories of the bar fight came back to her.
The morkyn . . . the oldest and most powerful of our kind.
That’s what the possessed woman in Beck’s had said, right before she turned into a monster.

Drakthal was a super demon. Evie remembered her hopeless terror a few months earlier when she’d been possessed. The wraith had risen out of the dead man in the park and entered her body, pushing the essence of Evie into a place of deep despair from which she could never escape.

And this demon was much stronger.

“Cease your whining, halfling,” Drakthal said to Blake. “You will be recompensed for your pain.”

The demon reached for her, and Evie cringed.

Something brushed past her ear, so close that it stirred her hair. A silver arrow sank into the morkyn’s knobby abdomen. The demon bellowed in pain. One, two, three more arrows found their mark, and Drakthal shattered into black dust.

Evie whirled around, relief, joy, and disbelief surging through her. “Ansgar!”

He was alive. Covered in blood and obviously still wounded and weakened by Peterson’s attack, but he was
alive.

“Get out of the way, Evangeline,” he said, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

Shrieking with rage, the cluster of wraiths attacked. Evie scrambled behind the desk, her attention focused on Ansgar as he sent arrow after arrow whizzing through the air at the demons. He was outnumbered and he was hurt. There were too many of them.

A giant black wolf leaped through one of the windows. Shaking the shattered glass from its fur, the wolf looked right at her. Something passed between them. Evie’s jaw sagged in surprise. Whitsun, the wolf was Sheriff Whitsun. Crazy, but she was sure of it. He must have recognized Peterson’s scent and followed them here.

The wolf joined the fray. Leaping into the air, the beast caught and tore the wraiths to pieces with its powerful jaws.

Evie began to relax. It was going to be all right. She would not lose Ansgar again.

A draft of cool air blew her skirt against the back of her legs. She caught a whiff of frankincense and was yanked backward through the opening in the wall. The door in the paneling closed, and the sounds of battle faded.

It was not going to be all right. She was trapped inside a hidden passage in the Peterson insane asylum with the biggest nutball in the joint.

Chapter Forty-two

B
lake Peterson dragged Evie along a dimly lit hall, flung open a door, and threw her down a flight of stairs. He was extremely strong. She rolled, end over end, and hit her head on the wall at the bottom. Dazed, she looked up. Blake stalked down the steps. His face was cracked and swollen, his eyelids were puffy, and strips of flesh dangled from his chin.

“Tsk, tsk, my dear,” he said. “You should be more careful. You could hurt yourself.” He jerked her to her feet. “Come along. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Evie pulled back. “Let me go, and maybe Ansgar won’t kill you.”

“He can’t kill me if he can’t find me, and he can’t find us here.” He led her down a winding brick tunnel. “My father made his first fortune during Prohibition running bootleg whiskey. This was a speakeasy. There was a nightclub and rooms for gambling and sex. People used to come here from miles around to dance and eat and party. We still use the original furnace to heat the house.” He stopped in front of an entrance in the brick. “Here we are.”

He opened the door. A horrible odor rolled out of the chamber, a smell so strong and overpowering that Evie gagged. Something inside that room was dead, maybe several somethings. She drew back.

Peterson gripped her arm. “Filthy smell, isn’t it? Breathe through your mouth. I’d say you get used to it, but you don’t.”

He shoved her inside. Evie expected a scene out of a horror movie—rotting body parts, bloated corpses, blood, decay, and filth. Instead, the room was tidy, spacious, and elegantly furnished. Framed photographs and tasteful artwork hung on the brick walls, and a Persian carpet covered the floor. A flat-screen television on an antique sideboard faced a large four-poster bed. There was a large custom-built glass display case on one wall, empty except for a curved dagger. More room for Blake’s growing collection of weaponry, no doubt. Clarice Peterson sat in an armchair in one corner of the room doing needlework. She seemed oblivious to the stench, but then she always seemed oblivious.

Blake shut and locked the door. Evie’s heart sank. She was well and truly trapped.

“Mrs. Peterson, help me,” she said. “Please.”

Clarice gave her a blank look. No help there.

“Daddy, you have a visitor,” Blake said.

Clarice put down her needlework and rose from her chair.

That’s when Evie noticed the figure on the bed, and the horror movie really started to roll. It was a man. Or maybe what
used
to be a man. Evie couldn’t be sure. The thing on the bed was a twisted, gnarled lump and it
stunk,
like spoiled meat, charred fat, boiled cabbage, offal, and fish guts rolled into one. The oily, putrid smell crawled over Evie in waves. Anything that came within fifty feet of Creeper Dude was bound to stink, too. No wonder Blake used frankincense to disguise the odor and Clarice bathed herself in perfume.

Blake grabbed her elbow and dragged her closer to the four-poster. “This is Evie Douglass, Daddy,” he said. “Miss Douglass, meet my father, William Coleman Peterson.”

“Cole Peterson?” Evie said. “He died when I was little.”

“Yes, we had a funeral and everything, but Daddy didn’t die. He can’t, not for a very long time. He just keeps getting more and more like this.” Blake waved a hand at the thing on the bed. “He was possessed by a demon when he was in his thirties. Most humans don’t survive long after they are taken. A couple of months, a few years at most, before the demon sucks them dry. But not my daddy.” There was pride in Blake’s voice. “Cole Peterson was a match for that old demon. Latched on to it and wouldn’t let go. Daddy liked the power the demon gave him. Used it to build him an empire. By the time that old devil got tired and wanted to move on, it was too late. Cole Peterson and the djegrali had somehow merged. And now they’re stuck with one another. If Daddy dies, the demon dies, so the demon keeps him alive. Sort of. You can see why we had to fake his death, although Daddy still helps me run the business from down here. Uses his powers to give us an edge on the competition, right, Daddy?”

The thing turned its head. The skull was hairless and brown—it reminded Evie of a big pecan—and its eyes were withered raisins in the sockets.

Why have you brought this woman into my presence? Take your plaything and leave.

The voice sounded in the room although the lump on the bed didn’t speak. It couldn’t. There was nothing recognizable as a mouth left.

“It’s not like that, Daddy.” Blake sounded petulant. “She’s not my mistress, and I haven’t killed anyone around here in years.”

See that you don’t. I am done cleaning up your little messes. I have not forgotten June Hammond.

“You still mad about that? That was ages ago,” Blake said. “Listen, Daddy, this is different. This is
big.
Remember that story you used to tell me, the one about the Dalvahni warrior? ”

Kell,
Creeper Dude whispered.
In the form of a giant. I beheaded him and took his knife as a remembrance.

“Yes, yes, Daddy, the knife in the new case I had built here in your room.”

“You never told me you had a Dalvahni knife,” Clarice said. Her voice startled Evie. Clarice was so quiet Evie had forgotten she was there. “Their weapons kill demons, don’t they?”

“Shut up, Clarice,” Blake said, dismissing her. “I’m talking to Daddy. Anyway, this woman I’ve brought you is Dalvahni.”

This cannot be so. The Dalvahni are male.

“She was human, but a Dalvahni warrior changed her.
Made
her Dalvahni. But she’s still weak. She hasn’t been trained, and she hasn’t had time to develop her powers.” Blake touched his swollen face. “Fully, at any rate.”

Creeper Dude was silent.

“Don’t you see, Daddy? We can use her to bargain with the morkyn. They want her. Imagine what a demon could do with a Dalvahni body, even if it is only female. They’ll give us anything we want. Money. Women. Power. We’ll be kings.”