Carlos

Clutching the plastic evidence bag containing my belongings, I shake my head.

"I'm not working with him."

We stand under the harsh fluorescent lights in the station's lobby, which except for a few dusty fake plants and a row of plastic chairs along the wall, is empty. It's nearly midnight.

The chief of police angles a hawkish gray brow at me. "Standard consultation fee."

"I think you have me confused with someone else," I say. "I don't consult with the police. You should contact Julian Hart if you want a psychic."

She puts her hands on her hips, reminding me of how Aunt Toni used to look when she wanted me to do something and there was absolutely no way I was getting out of it.

"First thing I did when I saw those symbols at the crime scene," she says. "He's busy. Out of town with Hunter on some thing."

"Hunter, as in the former detective?"

This comes from John Turner, who hasn't stopped scowling since his boss rescued me.

"One and the same."

"He works with a psychic now?" The tiny lift at the corner of his lip reveals his disdain for the idea.

"Well, he married him, anyway. Speaking of, don't you go stealing this one on me, Martinez." She nods at Turner. "I can't afford to keep replacing them."

The flush and look of horror on the detective's face tells me there's a better chance of a snowstorm in Hell.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll tell you what I know, but that's it. I was just tryna help Kyle, not play cop."

The chief eyes me critically. "All right. Answer two questions for me, Martinez. Is this some warlock wannabe who found those symbols on the internet somewhere, or is this the real deal?"

I swallow. I'd rinsed my mouth out in the bathroom but the taste of vomit lingers, stirring my nausea anew. "It's the real deal," I say.

She nods. "And is this the end of it? Or should we be worried?"

"It's just the beginning," I whisper.

She releases a heavy breath and smooths a hand over her gray hair, which is bound in a neat, single braid. "Listen, Martinez. There are indications that Kyle knew his killer. I can't reveal more details until you're onboarded as a consultant, but it might shed light on things. Meanwhile, you've got expertise my team needs. You wanna help Kyle, don't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Think about it. Call me when you change your mind." She turns to the detective and nods. "Take him home."

Turner blinks, taken aback. "What?"

"Do you need your hearing checked? I said take him home."

Turner bristles. "With all due respect, Chief, I've got a long report to write up, and I don't have time to play taxi driver."

Chief Coleridge is a good twelve inches shorter than Turner, but as she draws herself up, she seems to grow taller while he shrinks. "With all due respect, detective Turner, tell me if I've got the facts straight. According to the statement that you yourself took, Martinez left his vehicle on the other side of town. His phone is dead. The busses stop running at eight, and it's past midnight. The man has no shoes, his clothes are wet, and it's forty-eight degrees outside. Am I wrong?"

"No, but—"

"So, take him home."

Without waiting for a reply, she turns and marches up the stairs to the second floor offices.

Turner mutters a word under his breath. "Bitch."

I shift awkwardly from side to side. "It's okay, really. It's not that far. I can walk."

The detective looks at me and rubs the back of his head, making me accidentally appreciate the sculpted bulk of his shoulder and biceps. His expression softens a little, as if he's seeing me for the first time without his cop glasses on.

"Nah. I fucked up big time tonight, and the chief's got both our balls in a vice. Least I can do is give you a ride. Come on."

He leads the way outside and I follow, wincing as my sore feet encounter freezing concrete. I got scraped up pretty bad when Prince Charming here hauled me out of the stream. He glances over his shoulder at me and frowns, probably annoyed that I'm not keeping up.

"Wait here," he says. "I'll bring my car around."

He strides off at triple speed, and I sigh. Yep, he's annoyed.

A moment later, a black, unmarked sedan pulls around the side of the building and comes to a stop. The passenger side door pops open, and I see Turner at the wheel. I get in, shut the door, and shiver with relief as I feel warm air blasting from the vents on the dash.

I reach for one, intending to angle it more towards myself, and for some reason Turner reaches for the same vent at the same time. His hand brushes mine and he snatches it back as if burned.

"It's not contagious," I say, rolling my eyes and hunching in my seat.

"What?"

"The Gay, or whatever it is you're afraid of. You're not my type." The only lie I've told so far. "Besides, you're married."

He clears his throat. "Divorced."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He turns his attention to the road, and I figure the conversation is over. He startles me when he speaks again.

"I'm sorry, too. I crossed a line, showing you those photos. I'll be lucky if the chief doesn't write me up for it."

I shake my head. "You were just doing your job."

"Not well, it seems." He sighs. "So, what's the deal, anyway? What did you mean when you told the chief this was 'just the beginning?'"

I glance at him, but he's facing forward, eyes on the road. He's got a sharp jaw and a strong chin, and his nose looks like it's been broken at least once. A thin scar bisects one brow, and a shadow darkens his hazel eyes, as if he's seen too many things he can't unsee.

"I don't know. I'll have to verify some things with my aunt."

"Your aunt? What, is she a ghostbuster, too, or whatever you are?"

"Asesina. My family are 'asesinos.'"

"I thought you said you weren't a murderer?"

I glance at him again in surprise. "You speak Spanish?"

"Just a few words. I know that one."

"Oh. Well, yeah, it means killer or murderer. In this case it's 'slayer.' Asesinos de espíritus malos — killers, or slayers, of evil spirits. That was the, er... the 'family business,' traditionally. My aunt's the last one, and she's given it up. She still knows all the shit, though."

"And?"

"And..." I take a breath. I recognized the symbols, and given what happened to Kyle, there's almost no doubt in my mind as to what they are, and yet it still feels like a dream, and like saying it aloud will make the nightmare real. "It's part of a ritual," I say. "A ritual to summon a powerful demon and gain it's favor."

"A real demon?"

"No, an imaginary demon."

He glances over and narrows his eyes at me. "Fine. Let's say I believe in demons. You said 'part of a ritual.' What's the rest of it?"

A traffic light changes and he comes to a stop, engine idling. I stare at the bright red signal, as if it can burn the memories of what I'd seen in those photos from my mind.

"There are three parts," I say. "Three 'feasts,' or offerings, held at specific times. That was the Feast of Pain. Next is the Feast of Blood. Finally, the Feast of Betrayal, in which the demon possesses and takes the life of a human host."

I shiver so violently i bite my tongue. Turner notices and turns up the heat.

"Okay. So what I'm hearing is this killer isn't done."

I shake my head.

"What's he get out of it, anyway? I mean, assuming this 'demon' is real."

I shrug. "Power, youth, longevity, wealth. Something along those lines, usually."

Turner grunts, but says nothing more. The light changes, and he drives on, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

A few minutes later, we arrive at the garage. He pulls around the back, close to the stairs that lead up to my apartment, and parks.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, opening the door. "And don't worry. I'll let you know if I have any helpful information to share, but otherwise I want nothing to do with this. In fact, I want to stay as far away from it as possible."

He nods. "Good. I respect the chief, but I've already got a partner, and no desire to run around playing Scooby Doo."

I get out, wincing as my bare feet encounter cold, sharp gravel. Turner reaches over and opens his glove box, rummages within, and extracts a business card.

"Call me if you've got something real for me."

I resist the urge to flip him off (barely) and take the card, slamming the door shut with a little more force than needed. He drives away.

Wearily, I climb the stairs, unlock my door, and let myself in. Then I toss his card in the trash, take a shower, and fall into bed.

I wake, early the next morning, to something tickling my face. I brush it away. I'm tickled again. I brush it off again and roll over.

Spiders don't bother me; little eight-legged freak can go fuck itself.

Meanwhile, my alarm hasn't even gone off yet, and I had a late, traumatic night.

A sharp slap has me wide awake and bolt upright in bed.

"The fuck?"

I peel something off my forehead. It's Detective Turner's card. Meanwhile, my phone, which I didn't take the time to plug in the night before, is fully charged and placed helpfully beside my bed.

"Are you fucking with me, Kyle? You want me to work with the cops? Is that why you led me under the bridge?"

The temperature in the room drops a good ten degrees and the light in my closet flicks on.

"Are you kidding me?"

The light fizzles and pops, and I raise my hands in surrender.

"All right, all right! Don't burn the house down. I'll call him. You happy now?"

The light flicks back on.

Great.

I make a mental note to pick up some warding supplies in town — set some basic roommate bounds. I don't mind Kyle sticking around, but I don't want him watching me sleep.

In the meantime, I study the name on the card.

"Well, Mr. John M. Turner," I sigh. "Looks like you and I get a second date. Set up by a ghost. Too bad you don't bat for my team."

The light in the closet goes out.

I admit defeat, and reach for my phone.