You Slay Me Page 10

  "Brazen be damned, I'm going to ask for some help," I swore, kneeling by the circle to make a sketch of the exact arrangement of the symbols in the small notebook I'd borrowed from Amelie. Once that was done, I stared down at the circle, unsure of what else I was supposed to see in it. Drake sounded so positive when he said I'd find the answers in it.

  "Can a Guardian tell who drew a circle?" I sat back on my heels again as I considered the ashy markings.

  "An experienced Guardian, possibly. A neophyte like you?" Jim stopped looking out the window long enough to shake its head. "Unlikely."

  I gnawed my lower Up for a few seconds. "Could a Guardian tell what specific demon was summoned by the circle?" I couldn't imagine how knowing what demon was summoned would help me, but it was the only other thing I could think of.

  Jim didn't even bother looking my way. "If she couldn't, she's not much of a Guardian."

  "Really? How, exactly?"

  Jim sat and started licking its belly. I averted my eyes quickly in case it decided to give its personal equipment another spit bath. "You summoned a demon, and you don't know how you did it?"

  F gave a mental sigh. "I really hate it when everyone answers my questions with questions."

  The demon glanced at me before returning to its belly wash. "We're just trying to swing the scale from clueless to merely incompetent."

  I ignored the comment and studied the circle, thinking back to the circle I drew to summon Jim. Suddenly I sat up straight. "The demon's six symbols! That's how I can tell which demon was summoned."

  "Give the girl a cigar."

  "But this circle doesn't have anything but the twelve symbols of Ashtaroth." I chewed my lip again, searching for signs that the six demon symbols had been rubbed out. There were none.

  Jim gave a huge martyred sigh. "If you're any sort of a Guardian, you should be able to feel which demon was summoned by opening yourself to the possibilities."

  "The possibilities?" I glanced from my furry demon and to the circle. "Er... how do I do that?"

  "What am I, the headmaster at a Guardian school? I've got better things to do than hold your hand." Jim got up and started down the tiny hall toward the bedroom.

  "Hey! Where are you going?"

  'To drink out of the toilet, since you seem to forget that this magnificent form I have taken needs both feed­ing and watering."

  "Don't touch anything else!" I warned, then looked back at the circle, muttering under my breath about demons who wouldn't answer a question when it was put to them. "Open myself to the possibilities. How the heck am I supposed to know what that means?"

  I remembered the door in my mind that had opened when Drake gave me his fire, and decided to see if I could do the same without being lip-locked with the sexiest dragon in Western Europe. "Guess it's worth a try. I can't do anything worse than fail."

  I closed my eyes, my hands outstretched toward the circle. After a few moments of clearing out the everyday hustle and bustle of thoughts that made up my mind, I settled down to opening myself up to the room. Slowly the muffled noises of Paris outside the apartment, the sounds of Jim drinking at the toilet, and the musty, closed smell of the apartment all faded into the background as the circle dominated my thoughts. As I swung the mental door open, I was amazed all I had felt before was a slight tingle around the circle—the power contained within it was enough to make the hairs on my arms stand on end. Even with my eyes closed, I could see it, much clearer in my mind than when viewed with mere eyes. It was as if opening up myself had flipped on a switch that gave me a tremendous clarity of vision. I looked down at the cir­cle and saw clearly that the six demon symbols were drawn with salt, not ash, and like the salt of the circle it­self, the symbols had sunk into the depths of the carpet.

  "Bafamal," I said, the name coming to my mind with a surety that made me believe it even though I had not recognized the demon symbols. 'This circle was drawn to summon Bafamal, but he did not answer the sum­mons."

  "Why?"

  The voice was Jim's. I turned blindly toward the win­dows around which Jim had been sniffing. I could feel echoes of the demon, as if its presence had violated the room. "Because it was already here. It left by the win­dow."

  As the words sank into my brain, the door in my mind closed. I opened my eyes, almost disappointed with what I saw. The colors of reality were dull compared with what I had just seen, the edges and contours not quite so de­fined. Just as I was mourning the loss of my super brain-vision, realization of what had happened struck me. "Hey! I really am a Guardian! Not that I know exactly what a Guardian is, but I'm whatever they are, I'm one."

  "Well, duh," Jim said. "You think just anyone can summon up a superior demon like me?"

  I frowned. "According to the books I read, pretty much anyone can."

  "The lesser demons, yes, but not a demon of my qual­ity," Jim sniffed righteously.

  I let that comment go without the answer it deserved. 'The demon Bafamal left by the window," I said, getting to my feet and going over to examine the window. I looked out, surprised by what I saw. "There's a fire es­cape here."

  "No!" Jim said in mock surprise.

  "I'm quite serious about visiting the neutering clinic, you know," I said, but without any heat as I examined the window. There were black splotches of powder all over it where the police had fingerprinted the woodwork. I un­latched the window, pushing it open. "One has to assume that a demon must have a reason for escaping through a window rather than just disappearing in a puff of nasty-smelling smoke. Come on, Jim. Let's see where this leads."

  I waited until Jim left the apartment, closing the win­dow as best I could from the outside, hoping no one would notice that it was unlatched. The end of the fire escape nearest me led to a ladder that went up, not down. I turned and walked the length of the building to where a metal ladder could be dropped down halfway to the ground. I examined the ladder, noting that the police had fingerprinted it, as well. Point one for Inspector Proust. "Interesting. So the demon escaped out the window rather than just going back to He ... Abaddon. Now I just need to find out when and why Drake was in the apartment and whether he saw the demon. Or the killer. I wonder if Drake came in by the window, as well?"

  "Why would he?" Jim asked.

  I shrugged. "I don't know, but then, I don't know why Drake was here in the first place if he isn't the murderer. And I'm still not sure he's not."

  "Are you going to stand there and debate the issue all day, or can we get down?"

  Jim was peering over the edge of the fire escape. There was a definite look of unease on its face.

  "Scared of heights?" I asked.

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm a demon. The only things we're scared of are the demon princes and the dark mas­ter of them all."

  "That sneer doesn't quite cut it." I grinned but took pity on Jim as I slid the ladder into place, quickly climb­ing down it. "Last step's a doozy—be careful," I said, rubbing my knees that had protested the four-foot drop.

  "I don't suppose you'd even think of offering to catch me?" Jim asked from the top of the ladder.

  "You must weigh at least a hundred and twenty pounds. The answer is no. You're a demon—you can't feel pain. Jump."

  "Doesn't mean I want to ruin this nice form by break­ing my legs," Jim grumbled, but it managed to head down most of the steps before jumping to land beside me.

  "Any ideas which way the demon would have gone?" I asked, looking down the shady alley that ran the width of the building. I peered into the shadows, trying to de­termine whether a demon would have been likely to run that way.

  Jim didn't answer me.

  "Look, I'm not asking you to be actually helpful or anything, but you could offer me a bit of advice once in a while. I don't think that would kill you." I turned around to glare at Jim and came face-to-face with the mild brown eyes of Inspector Proust. "Gah!"

  "And bonjour to you, too," Inspector Proust said. His eyebrows raised a fraction as his warm eyes cons
idered me. "You will forgive my impertinent curiosity, Mile. Grey, but I am unable to keep from asking if you often find yourself receiving advice from dogs?"

  I looked down at Jim, who was sitting with an unusu­ally smug look on its face, madly trying to come up with an excuse for being there, but it wasn't any good. My mind had evidently gone to lunch, leaving me holding the proverbial bag. And Jim's leash. Next to the fire escape that led up to the apartment of a murdered woman.

  One whose death I was suspected of causing.

  "Poop," I said. And meant it.

  7

  "Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me?" In­spector Proust asked in a voice that held a note of steel beneath the polite veneer.

  "Down to the police station?" I asked miserably, falling in alongside him as he ambled toward the end of the street, where a couple of benches overlooked the Seine. Jim walked next to me, thankfully silent. I made a note to buy the biggest hamburger I could find in Paris for Jim ... if I managed to keep from being thrown into jail. I couldn't help but wonder if the French still used the Bastille. Thoughts of the guillotine weren't even worth contemplating.

  "I have no intention of taking you to the station. Not unless you desire me to do so," Inspector Proust an­swered. He strolled along with his hands clasped behind his back, just as if we were two old buddies taking a lunchtime walk together. "I have been looking for you this morning. I wanted to speak to you. I see you have ac­quired a dog."

  I glanced quickly at Jim. "Well, it... he sort of found me. He's a stray, homeless, one no one wanted, so I thought I'd take him in until I can find someone to take him off my hands." Not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth, either.

  "Ah. Most commendable of you." We reached the benches. He waited politely until I seated myself before sitting down next to me. "You permit?"

  I nodded my head when he pulled out a package of cig­arettes, then shook it when he offered me one. "We are having very nice weather this week, yes? So nice it seems strange to me that a visitor to Paris would desire spending her time inside rather than out seeing the many pleasing sights there are to see."

  I squirmed a bit until I realized what I was doing. Ei­ther he was going to arrest me, in which case squirming wasn't going to do me the least bit of good, or he was going to pump me for information, and my squirming might be interpreted as an indication that I was not telling him the truth. "You want to know why I was in Mme. Deauxville's apartment just now?"

  "If you would not object to telling me."

  "I kind of thought you would be curious." I thought briefly of lying, but my ex-husband once told me I was the world's worst liar, so I figured the truth would have to do. "I wanted to look at the circle that was drawn beneath where Mme. Deauxville was hung."

  "Ah, the occult circle, yes. Why did you wish to ex­amine it?"

  I slid him a quick glance. "I thought if I had a good look at it, I might be able to figure out who killed her."

  His eyebrows raised. "Much as I appreciate your help, I must point out that the Criminal Investigation Depart­ment has a full roster of policemen and investigators em­ployed. Your time, perhaps, would be better spent in other endeavors."

  I played with the leash, avoiding meeting either Proust's or Jim's eyes. "Such as?"

  "An explanation of what ties you have to a lady by the name of Amelie Merllain."

  "Amelie?" I frowned at him. Why on earth was he ask­ing about Amelie'? A nasty suspicion started to form in the back part of my mind. "She owns a shop in the Latin Quarter. Other than visiting her shop, I don't have any ties to her."

  "Indeed. And yet you visited the shop twice yester­day."

  "That was ... I was ... I just needed ..." I stopped, unable to tell him my last visit was to procure demon-raising supplies.

  Inspector Proust looked at me with gentle sorrow, as if I'd let him down somehow. "I see. Perhaps instead of an­swering these so troublesome questions, you would care to discuss your relationship with the gentleman known as Albert Camus?"

  "The Venediger?" I asked, surprised.

  Proust inclined his head. "I believe that is one of his aliases."

  "You've been following me!" I jumped to my feet so I could glare down at him.

  He did the Gallic shrug I was starting to think I'd have to learn, it was just that expressive. "Did you think I would allow you to wander freely?"

  I sat back down and thought about that for a few min­utes. "I suppose you have a point, although I don't like it. I'm not guilty of the murder—I've told you that."

  Inspector Proust puffed on his cigarette for a few min­utes as we both watched a barge drift by. It was surpris­ingly pleasant sitting there, a tranquil and peaceful corner of Paris. Although we were approaching midday, the breeze from the river kept it from being too hot, and as the now-familiar cacophony of sounds that was Paris seemed a long way away, our little spot seemed almost a haven.

  "I do not think you killed Mme. Deauxville," Inspec­tor Proust said suddenly. "I have examined your move­ments most stringently, and I do not believe you would have had the time to murder her and hang her between the time you arrived and when the police descended."

  I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until he said that. I let it out, relaxing against the back of the bench, more than a little surprised to find he believed me inno­cent of the murder. "That's not an admission that you be­lieve I'm telling the truth, but I'll take it."

  "However, I have not ruled out the possibility that you are working in cooperation with the person who did mur­der her," Proust added.

  Jim made a noise that sounded strangely like it was a laugh. I tugged on the leash as a warning. "Well, hel... er ... heck. I don't suppose you'd care to just take my word for it that I didn't?"

  "I would prefer proof absolute," he said in a careful neutral tone.

  I sighed. "I'd give it to you if I had it."

  He continued to watch the river for a few minutes. "What did you find in the circle during your visit to Mme. Deauxville's apartment?"

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked almost disinterested, as if he were simply passing the time talking about something innocuous, like the weather. Now I had to lie, or else he'd think I was stark, staring mad. "Not much. There was salt in it as well as ash."

  He nodded, waiting for me to go on. I fidgeted, trying to pick out things I could safely tell him. "Whoever drew the circle followed the formula for summoning Ashtaroth, a demon lord."

  "A demon lord, how very unusual." If his voice were any more bland, it would be tapioca. "Why would some­one wish to do that?"

  "You got me," I answered, giving a little shrug of my own. It wasn't nearly as effective as his, but it felt good nonetheless.

  "No, I do not have you, but I could if I feel strongly enough that you are not being entirely honest with me."

  I glanced at him again to see if he was joking. Serious brown eyes looked back at me.

  "Oh. Uh..."

  "For someone who is new to Paris, you seem to have made quite an entrance in the occult underground society that is so popular in the Latin Quarter."

  Oh, lord, had he seen me playing kissy-face with Drake in G & T?

  "One might almost say you were comfortable in such a society, as if you were expected."

  "I didn't know a soul here until I arrived," I said hon­estly. I chanced another glance at him. His left eyebrow was cocked in outright disbelief.

  "If that is so, I would be forced to say that you have made yourself familiar with certain individuals excep­tionally quickly."

  He had seen Drake and me kissing! Damn. "Um ..."

  Proust flicked his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out with his heel as he stood up. "A word of advice, if you will permit it, mademoiselle."

  "Whatever turns your crank," I said as I stood up, too.

  "It is an English poet, I think, who said that all that glitters is not gold. Me, I say that which looks innocent is often the most corrupt
ed."

  With those parting words, Inspector Proust patted Jim on the head and strolled off down the cobblestone street toward Mme. Deauxville's house.

  "Well, how do you like that? Was he talking about me, do you think? Or something else? And if so, who? Or what?"

  "How would I know? I'm just a homeless stray no one wanted that you so kindly took in," Jim answered. "He petted me, you'll notice. You could do more of that. Wouldn't hurt you any."

  I made a face. "May I remind you that you're a demon, not a dog, and it is commonly held that those things that we mortals find enjoyable—like petting—are loathsome to demons?"

  "All I said was that you could do more of it," Jim said with great dignity, lumbering over to pee on a nearby trash can.

  I thought about what I needed to do next. Even though Inspector Proust said I was off the hook for the actual murder, it was obvious he thought I was involved some­how, which was not going to get me my passport back. I still needed to find out who drew that circle, and although I had a clue in the name of the demon that was present, it wasn't enough to give me the answer.

  "I bet Drake knows, the rat fink."

  "I thought he was a wyvern."

  I turned to Jim, patted it on the head, and even gave its ears a quick fondle. "Stop groaning, people will hear you."

  "Dogs groan when you rub their ears," Jim said with a sour look.

  I grabbed the leash and headed toward the Pont Marie.

  'True, but they don't mumble 'Oh, yeah, mama, that's the spot right there!' while they're doing it. Any ideas on where in Paris a wyvern would be likely to keep his lair?"

  "Phone book," Jim said.

  I shot it a look. "That's just stupid. Drake is a power­ful dragon, a wyvern, an immortal. He wouldn't be in a phone book like normal people."

  "Just because you're immortal doesn't mean you don't want people to call you," Jim pointed out.

  "Fine, I'll look, but it's a waste of time," I grumbled as I changed course to stop by a pay phone. "You could be trying to help me by thinking of all the likely spots that a dragon might... Well, I'll be damned."

  "Told you," Jim said smugly as I stared down at the phone book page. There was Drake's name, big as life.