“What proof do you have that a class-five demon was with the elf’s killer?” DiMatteo asked Bert.
The necromancer gave the demonologist a flat look. “Seven foot tall without the horns. Tail as long as Mac here is tall. Turn-ons include chest branding, heart eating, and soul sucking. Yeah, it was a Class Five.”
DiMatteo either ignored the sarcasm or he didn’t get that, either. “Were there bony protrusions like a ridge down the length of its back?”
Bert shook his head. “Smooth back.”
“Slender build or heavy?”
Bert looked confused.
“Swimmer or linebacker?” DiMatteo clarified.
“Somewhere in between, but more toward swimmer.”
“The horns. Were they upward-, forward-, or backward-facing? Forward would be like a bull. Backward is like a goat. Upward is . . . up.”
That question gave Bert pause. “I’m not sure.”
“Think.”
“It’s important?”
“Critical.”
“Upward, but curved and slightly tilted toward the back.”
Martin DiMatteo would have raised his eyebrows in surprise if he’d had any. Two little crinkles appeared where his eyebrows would have been.
“Are you certain? Not like a goat or bull?”
Bert closed his eyes, mentally reviewing his “game tape.” He opened them. “Upward. The base was about as thick as two of my fingers. They narrowed to a sharp point. They also had circular ridges like growth rings down the length.”
The demonologist sat back on the seat next to me with a genuine smile. You’d have thought Bert had just handed him the best present he’d ever gotten. “Then it wasn’t a Class Five.”
“Well then, what class was it?”
“Demon lords are above the BCS.”
“BCS?” I asked.
“Brinkman Classification System.”
“Someone got close enough to demons to classify them?”
“Affirmative. But he’s not around anymore.”
No doubt.
I swallowed. Hard. “A demon lord sounds bad.” My voice sounded tiny. I’d just had firsthand experience with seeing one, at least a silhouette, which was more than I ever wanted to see again.
“That would depend on your perspective, Agent Fraser. If what Bert says is accurate, and I don’t have reason to doubt him, now that I’ve extracted more details, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“After Sar Gedeon got up close and personal with that thing, his lifetime was over. And if Gedeon’s killer used a demon lord as their hired muscle, what does that say about what the killer is?”
“Precisely.” The demonologist added a delighted eye twinkle to go with his smile.
He was getting happier than a pig in mud.
I was getting even more scared and creeped the hell out than I already was.
“Demon lords—and ladies—only leave Hell for special occasions,” DiMatteo said. “This particular lord must consider it to be very much worth his while. They are proud, arrogant, and utterly self-absorbed, and would only consider subjecting themselves to Hell’s aristocracy.”
I felt the blood run out of my face. “So the killer is a—”
“Not necessarily the aristocracy, but a being that the demon lord could tolerate partnering with until he gets what he is in this to obtain.”
“What would that be?”
“Unknown at this time. Whatever it is, ‘catastrophic’ would probably be the best description for how bad it would be if he got it.”
12
DR. Stephens wasn’t all that disappointed—or surprised—that Bert had flown the medical coop. It was obvious that the necromancer was a less than ideal patient.
Besides, now he had me.
The squid demon bouncing my head off the garage’s concrete floor earned me a CAT scan and a stay for overnight observation in SPI’s infirmary.
I was in the same bed—with fresh sheets—that Bert had occupied until he pulled a Houdini. Bert had said earlier that I had looked like I needed to be in that bed worse than he did. If I’d had a lick of sense, I’d have just crawled in then and saved myself the pain, possible concussion, and definite emotional trauma.
All of the tentacle constricting hadn’t interrupted the blood flow to my legs long enough to do any permanent damage. My feet still felt a little tingly, which wasn’t exactly conducive to standing, let alone running after or away from anything. The scrapes and cuts from being dragged across the concrete had been cleaned and spritzed with some kind of miracle spray that not only took the sting out, but dried to provide a bandage that wouldn’t move or come off. It needed to be reapplied every twelve hours.
Because of all that, Alain Moreau—and more importantly, Vivienne Sagadraco—after they had come to talk to me about what had happened—and what had almost happened—had ordered mandatory bed rest and observation for at least the next twelve hours.
They’d both listened in grim silence as I’d recounted my experience. They’d asked few questions, all of them to clarify details, then the boss had told me to get some sleep, and they’d left.
If they knew who or what my attacker was—and I strongly suspected they had an inkling—they weren’t telling me. Probably because I needed to sleep, and sleep would’ve been hard to come by if Dr. Stephens had to sedate me during the panic attack I would’ve had if they’d told me what they knew.