Demon Master (Demonsense series Book 2) (9 page)

“I’m sorry,” Daniel repeated again. She dared a look at him, and she got another unpleasant jolt of memory. Her heart stuttered as she answered, “That’s not your fault. But maybe it happened for a reason. I don’t think I’m ready for this, Daniel. I don’t think either of us are ready for it.”

“Ah, hell, I don’t know, Bree,” Daniel answered. He bent down and picked up his sweater. “I’m not sure I even know what ready looks like.” He shoved his arms through the sleeves of his sweater, pulled it over his head, then tugged down hard on the bottom of the hem. His voice edged towards anger
 
“Obviously, I’m not the healthy relationship poster child. What do I know.”

“Daniel, look, I…”

“You’re probably smart not to get involved with me.” he interrupted. “I’ve got too much weird shit going on. Including the thing that happened with the exorcism. I’m not even sure how safe it is for you to work with me anymore.”

Bree started to get anxious again. This was all moving too fast for her. She wanted Daniel to pull back, yes, but not that far back. “We have a plan, Daniel, and I want to stick to it. I still want to meet on Saturday and do the trial with Gelsenim, ask him to read you with me, see what we can find out.”

“Yes, but how can you trust me? How can you trust that I can keep you safe with Gelsenim, keep control of him?”

“Well, I trust you for that,” Bree answered quickly, unthinkingly.

Daniel shook his head sharply. “And not for much else. I know.”
 

“C’mon, that’s not what I meant,” Bree protested.

Daniel shook his head again. “I think that is
exactly
what you meant. Look, fine. Let’s stick to the plan and do that much. We can invite Kevin for back up on the wards, maybe bring Sophie and Bruce back in as well, get all the layers of protection we can arrange. And obviously, we’re back to a professional working relationship. You don’t have to spell it out. It’s pretty clear that whatever it is that’s between us, you can’t trust someone like me. And I’m not even sure you’re wrong in that. Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time for me to head home. Thanks for dinner.” He gave her one last heated, hurt look, and stalked off toward the door.
 

Bree followed him, unable to think what else to say, able to get out only an entirely inadequate, “Goodnight!” as he went out the door.
 

She walked slowly back into her living room, and dropped down on the couch next to her dozing cat. He raised his head sleepily and emitted a questioning little trill at her, and she rubbed the top of his head with her thumb. “Oh Han,” she sighed. “What am I doing with that man? What on earth am I doing?”

Unfortunately, Hanroi did not have the answer to that

Leander
Rayne drove his black Saab onto the semi-circular driveway in front of Howard Scanlon’s house on top of Capitol Hill, one of the only neighborhoods in Seattle with truly classic old mansions. And Howard Scanlon’s place was that, a mansion. Leander parked, turned off the car, and looked out the window at it. He was a Reader, and for him, the read started with the subject’s chosen surroundings. The house was an early 1900’s Tudor. It was three stories tall and half-timbered with the traditional cream colored stucco between the wooden beams. There was a square brick portico in the center, and he could glimpse a huge wood front door with leaded glass across the top. The landscaping consisted of neatly trimmed mature bushes, a patch of green lawn, and two dark urns on either side of door where the pointed green foliage of some spring bulbs could be seen peaking out. Here was a man, Leander mused, who liked to look like he had old money. He was cautious and wanted to be in control of how he was perceived. Leander looked forward to seeing if his initial impressions of Seattle’s newest Keltoi clan leader were correct.

He got out of the car, taking care not to let his off-white linen suit jacket brush anything on his way out. It was too early in the year to dress in white, but Leander liked bucking traditions. He was wearing a pure white button down shirt underneath and light khaki pants. He reached up and flipped a lock of his bright red hair out of his collar. A smile graced his lips as he considered the interesting challenge he was walking into.
 

As he began his leisurely walk to the front door, a flock of sparrows swooped in close over his head, turned in mid-air, and swooped close again. He paused, held up a hand to focus his talent, and murmured, “No, no, little loves. No landing on the white jacket.” The birds made one last pass, then swerved to settle in one of the bushes next to the house’s entrance, chirping a delightful serenade. He blew a kiss at the little flock and finished his walk up to the front door, located the doorbell, and rang it. He heard the dim echo of it somewhere in the house, and damned if a butler didn’t open the door. Oh, he wasn’t wearing a classic butler outfit, but there was a diffidence to his bearing that marked him out to Leander as an employee.

“Leander Rayne here to see Mr. Scanlon,” he announced himself.
 

“Right this way, sir,” the butler answered, opening the door wider and gesturing him into the wood paneled entryway. There was a round table in the center with an impressive floral arrangement on it, flowering spring branches intermixed with expensive, not yet in season parrot tulips. The butler led him around the table and toward a door to the right, underneath the rising line of a grand staircase leading to the upper floors. A short hallway ended in a huge, gorgeously appointed kitchen which somehow gave the impression that it was seldom used. He could see a dining area to the left with a grand bank of windows taking in a view down the hill to Lake Washington and the Cascade mountain range in the distance. There was another hall off the kitchen that led back to a home office. The door to it was open, and the butler waved Leander in and closed the door after.
 

Howard Scanlon was sitting on a buff colored, velvet brocade couch, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a newspaper spread across his lap. He was a tall man, taller than Leander, which became apparent when he put down his glass and got up to shake hands. He had iron grey hair, bright blue eyes, and a long face with heavy features.
 
Leander judged him to be in his late fifties. He immediately read something careworn in the old guy’s face, something beyond the doubtless stressful transition to taking over as Chief of his clan. He had one of those overly hard grips during the shake, and Leander gave back what he got, teeth bared in a smile.

“Mr. Rayne. I’ve heard so much about you. Please have a seat.” Scanlon waved him to a chair across from the couch. There was a big desk in one corner, and Leander noted with interest that he was being treated more as a guest than an employee. He’d pictured standing in front of a big, imposing desk like that while he got his orders. Maybe that last job his did for Marton had finally gotten him some respect with the upper tier.

Leander had been briefed on Howard Scanlon’s talents, which was part of why he’d been looking forward so much to the meeting. Scanlon was a low power Demon Master, a high power Caster, reputedly very knowledgeable in the dark lore, and best of all, a high power Reader, not only of talents and energy, but that rarest kind of all, a Reader of tells. As Leander settled into the chair, he deliberately tried to think something uncharitable about the man in front of him. He hadn’t had someone this skilled to test himself on in a while. While he was casting about mentally for something really petty to focus on, Scanlon was talking.
 

“You come highly recommended by Marton Varga,” he was saying, as he sank back into the couch and reached out to retrieve his glass of juice.
 

“I’ve been with Marton for five years now,” Leander replied easily.
The big nose? Or should I focus in on the ridiculously faux European décor?

“I understand Marton discovered you, that you didn’t grow up in a Keltoi family.
 
You were an orphan, I believe?”

Leander’s attention abruptly focused back in on Scanlon. He wasn’t best pleased with the direction the conversation was heading. “All true. Marton’s been very good to me. And I’ve been very good to him in return.”

“Yes, I heard about the San Pedro job. Nice work.”

Good save,
Leander praised himself. They were successfully off the subject of his less than flattering life story and on to his work reputation.
 

“That’s the job that made Marton think of you for something I’ve got going on.
 
It’s fortunate for me this came up when you were at loose ends and could use some time out of reach of any intended reprisals.”
 

Intended reprisals was putting it mildly, Leander thought wryly to himself. He had actually been worried he wouldn’t make it out of that gig alive. But he had no intention of showing in his manner just how grateful he was for a paying job so far away from L.A.
 

Suddenly, something Marton had said to him came back to mind. Something about Scanlon’s son being killed recently. He’d heard the guy had been something of an embarrassment. Not very high power and something of a fuck-up. Leander gleefully imagined the humiliation an uptight, high power Keltoi would feel with a son like that. He felt the edge of his mouth begin to quirk in an involuntary smile.
 

“Yes, the timing is fortuitous,” he agreed, a beat late, having been distracted by picturing Scanlon’s son. “I’m interested in hearing more about the job.”

Scanlon shifted slightly on the couch, and took a slow sip of juice as Leander answered him. Then he crossed his leg, ankle on knee, mirroring Leander’s posture, and his mouth compressed slightly while he deliberately met Leander’s eyes. Leander read discomfort in the tells, including the discomfort Scanlon felt in knowing he was facing another high power tells Reader. Conversations could get very complicated very quickly when two such powered were in the same room. Leander’s delight in the situation moved up a notch.

“There’s a small group of powered here in town that I want infiltrated,” Scanlon began. “My predecessor Carson made the mistake of trying to directly coerce some members of this group for some information, so they’ll be on the alert for trouble. That information is still valuable to my organization, but I’d prefer to get it by less direct methods. The information I want is detailed and very specific, and in my opinion, that makes it the kind of information not best suited to extraction through coercion.” He leaned to the side and retrieved a manila envelope from the end table beside the couch, and handed it over to Leander. “Here are the dossiers on the known members of the group.”

Leander pulled out a stack of papers. There was a photograph on top, a face shot of a dark haired, dark eyed, grim looking man who looked to be in his early thirties. In permanent marker across the bottom in block print, was written the name Daniel Thorvaldson. “Thorvaldson,” Leander said with interest, “I’ve heard of him. He’s from some old, high power family back east, isn’t he? He has quite the reputation as a Keeper.”

“Retired Keeper, which is how he ended up in Seattle,” Scanlon corrected. “He's your main target. My sources tell me he is both a Demon Master and a Binder and has managed to come up with a spell to permanently hide these abilities, even from a full Ecclesias panel that investigated him after several of his exorcisms went suspiciously well in front of witnesses. You can imagine the use we might be able to get out of such a spell.”

Leander certainly could. Oh, this was getting good. If it was his job to weasel the information out of Thorvaldson, he’d be getting it too. Of course, there was no way he could sell it. Or rather, he could, but he’d lose his oh so lucrative job as spook for the Keltoi. He was low enough on the Demon Master scale that he didn’t read as a Demon Master to most people, but even with his special talent, he had occasionally been read on that accurately. To be able to hide it completely would be a godsend.
 

“So this guy, this Thorvaldson. What are his talents?”

“There is a detailed summary in your packet, but I can give you the basics. In addition to the two I mentioned, he’s high power in Casting, Reading, though energy only, and Warding. He’s nearly high power in Healing and Divination, although I understand he doesn’t really use the later talent.”

“Man, that’s some serious talent,” Leander replied, and the fact that the tension the news produced in him was obvious in his tone gave him a stab of discomfort.

“Indeed,” Scanlon said dryly. “He’s also, I believe, not very trusting. He left the Keepers under a cloud, and did enough damage to Keltoi and demon kind both that he had likely hoped to keep a low profile. But that hasn’t happened. The, ah, unfortunate advice of Marton’s current associate, Franchesca Gambrini, led to the attempt to take him on directly. The attempt failed, and in the process, my son was killed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Leander said, though of course he wasn’t surprised by the news. He focused intently on Scanlon’s tells. It looked to him like the man was too busy trying to control his own facial expression to read much from Leander.

“Which brings us to the other part of your task. The rest of the information I’m interested in is of a more personal nature. Ms. Gambrini passed on the information to me that a possible paramour of Thorvaldson’s is the one responsible for my son’s death. If you’ll turn to the next photograph…”

Leander did so. This one was of a woman closer to Leander’s age. She was looking back over her shoulder and smiling. He registered long brown hair, straight dark brows and hazel eyes. She had rather sharp features, but a lovely smile. She didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up in the picture. She couldn’t have looked less like a murderer.

“That is Bree Jenkins. I haven’t been able to find out that much about her talents.
 
All that’s known is that she is an Exorcist and Reader. It appears she got drawn into a conflict with our organization last autumn by virtue of her association with Thorvaldson and in an attempt to retrieve my grandson.”